


Shot in the Dark

by sariane



Series: The Second Most Dangerous Man in SHIELD [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clint Barton is actually Sebastian Moran, Crossover, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Avengers canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariane/pseuds/sariane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson gets a lot more than he bargained for when he takes a chance and recruits Clint Barton (former sniper for Moriarty) for SHIELD. When he accidentally gets tangled in a mutant conspiracy because of his new handler, Clint agrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken inspiration from a bunch of sources for this fic, including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes stories and various Marvel comics and cartoons. While I've used concepts from Sherlock (and even the X-Men movies), this story focuses on SHIELD, Clint, and Phil, and explicit knowledge of Sherlock probably isn't required. This is the weirdest thing I've written in awhile, but I had fun writing it and I hope someone enjoys it. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated!
> 
> Many thanks to "Aney", my "gamma reader," who Hulk-smashed my ideas into shape and helped me with X-Men stuff, even at 3AM. And thanks to "Carbutt", as always, for the encouragement and explosions (although you'll probably have to wait awhile for them).
> 
> Trigger Warnings:  
> Please let me know if I've missed anything!  
> -Implied PTSD.  
> -Implied psychological torture.  
> -Mention of off-screen minor character suicide.  
> -Minor character death (spoilers: it’s just the bad guys).  
> -Minor gore.  
> -Violent action scenes featuring various weapons and fighting.  
> -Vivid flashback sequences.

The target is a shadow. Clint has had his rifle pointed at the window across the dark, deserted street for hours, watching carefully. It's wrong, somehow. The way it moves, the way it always stays close to the window so he can see its shadow through the blinds. It's a dummy, it has to be. He's offended that they really think he's that stupid, but he's sharp. He will crouch in this empty apartment until the real target shows his face, and if he doesn't show, he'll pick off one or two of his friends.

There is the click of a gun behind his head.

"If you're going to kill me, I'd like a last request."

"I'm not here to kill you," a man replies. His voice and accent are flat, like Clint's. It's out of place in this city, and it's a dead giveaway. He's here just for this.

"You came a long way not to," Clint says. He looks up, trying to catch a reflection in the glass of the windows before him, but there isn't enough light. Glancing below, into the street, he sees something move. His target, maybe.

"I have a job offer for you, Mr. Barton" he continues. Clint smirks.

"I'm already employed."

"Your boss is dead. You don't have to do his dirty work anymore."

That's when he strikes, twisting around to trip up the man with his foot. But his opponent is prepared and jumps aside, trying to kick the rifle from his hands. Clint lets it go, grabs for the gun at his side, and is about to shoot the man through the eyes when he hears a bang and feels the sudden shock of being shot. Pain blossoms in his lower stomach.

It stops him, knocks the breath from his lungs, and disorients him long enough for the man to knock the gun from his hands. He holds his own gun to Clint's forehead, and Clint raises his hands.

"I said, I'd like a last request," Clint spits up at him from his kneeling position. He knows the bullet was not meant to kill him, although the man had aimed rather lethally for just disabling him. He's had worse, though, much worse, and this is nothing next to that pain and fear.

"That's unnecessary," the man says. Now that he can see him, Clint is a bit disappointed in himself. He's average-looking, no rippling muscles or showy gear. Just a simple suit on an average looking man. Clint would never remember if he'd seen him before. "Like I said, I'd like to offer you a job."

"Like I said, I'm already employed. And probably not for long, thanks to you."

"Mr. Barton, in case you don't remember, the man you say you answer to put a bullet through his own brain," the man says. "What is this, _revenge_? You're better than that."

"It's my last job," Clint says with labored breath. He'll last a few hours without medical attention if he ever makes it out of this. He curses inwardly at himself. He almost deserves it, for letting someone sneak up like that. "I guess that's truer than I thought," he chuckles, looking pointedly at the blood soaking his shirt.

"Clinton Francis Barton. Born in Waverly, Iowa. Parents died in a car crash when you were four. Later, you ran away from an orphanage and joined a traveling carnival. And that's not even where it gets interesting. Four years ago, Jim Moriarty recruited you. As of right now, you're the second most dangerous man in London."

"Second?" Clint sneers.

"You're wasted here," the man says simply. "Work for us. For me. I assure you, Mr. Barton, your skill set will be much more appreciated."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he snarls.

"I'm Phil Coulson, with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I can assure you, you'll never be bored with us. And you won't have to use a _gun_." Coulson nods pointedly at Clint's discarded rifle. He scowls; they know everything.

"We all know how you'll profit from this, _Agent Coulson_ ," Clint sneers, "but I’m a little hazy on how this doesn’t end with me on the run from some government agency that's turned on me."

"SHIELD takes care of its own," Coulson replies simply. "That's more than Moriarty ever did for you."

"And what if they don't?" Clint asks, taking a deep breath. It _hurts_ , just breathing, and he knows that this is part of Coulson's technique for persuasion. Hell, he's used it himself. He hates to be on the other end of the spiel.

"Then I will," Coulson says, looking him in the eye. Clint is familiar with deception, but less so with truth. He thinks he sees it in Phil's eyes. He means it.

Either that or he's incredibly good at lying. That’s probably more accurate.

"Where do I sign?" Clint asks. He thinks he sees the corner of Coulson's mouth turn up in a smile. "And where do I get medical attention?"

Coulson moves forward quickly, handcuffing him and patting him down quickly to discard the other weapons he has hidden. Clint knows that he just needs an opening to grab the knife he has hidden away and stab Coulson. He waits a moment, until Coulson mutters something into a communicator and he can get a grip on it.

"Out of curiosity, Mr. Barton, what would your last request have been?" Coulson asks suddenly, catching him off guard. He drops his hold on the knife.

"How the hell did you sneak up on me?"

Coulson smiles for real this time, and pulls something out of his pocket.

"Like this."

He presses a button, and Clint's world goes black.

*

Phil has been sitting next to Barton's cot for hours when he finally wakes up. Barton jumps and sits up immediately, swinging his bare feet over the end of the cot and glancing around with sharp eyes. Phil keeps very, very still and starts explaining immediately.

"You are at SHIELD headquarters in an undisclosed location, recovering from a mild gunshot wound in your lower abdomen. You've been unconscious for two days," he says, keeping his voice calm and collected. It's important; he doesn't want to have to subdue Barton if he reacts badly to waking up in a strange room. It would be understandable, after what he's been through. Phil has worked with other agents long enough to know how to handle them.

Phil watches carefully as Barton turns to look at him and then silently glances around the room. Phil sees it all through Barton's eyes: a scrutinizing look around the sterile hospital room (simple, small, medical), scouting out the exits (one door with bio-controlled locks, an air vent just large enough for Barton's frame with four visible screws), and the possible weapons (none, because he's very thorough). Finally, Barton turns back to him and looks down at himself. He's wearing a SHIELD issue t-shirt and sweatpants.

"What did you do to me?" Barton asks, visibly sizing him up. Phil doesn't waver under his harsh gaze. He knows perfectly well how the suit hides his lines of hard muscle, that is tie is perfectly straight, and his appearance screams "office monkey." He really tries.

"I used a device that emits a certain frequency that makes you black out temporarily," he answers smoothly. "Then they sedated you before you went into surgery. The gun was loaded with special bullets. They’re made to slow you down and make you feel pain, not hurt you. You’ll be fine in a few days."

"They," Barton says, lifting his shirt to look at the wrapped wound. He stands up, stretching gingerly, testing himself. Phil watches him carefully. "I didn't know I was on SHIELD's radar in the first place," Barton mutters. "I've heard of you."

"Then you'll know how we work, Mr. Barton." Phil gestures at the bolted-down chair next to the table. He's already got the contract drawn up.

"You neutralize all potential threats," Barton says, "Sometimes that involves hiring us. Yadda yadda yadda, I know the whole spiel, you can skip it. I'm good, you want me. Everyone does." He smiles cockily, and, when Phil doesn't respond to his nauseating ego, sits down in the offered chair. Phil wonders what changes he'll request to his contract. He's betting on money, weaponry, and protection.

"At first you'll be on probationary status, until your four week review. At such time, we'll take everything into consideration and update your contract, if needed. In the meantime, we expect you to obey all orders and work with the teams you are assigned to. You will answer to me, Director Fury, and all superiors without question. Is that understood?" Phil pushes the contract forward, not expecting it to be read. It's long and does not leave room for loopholes. He had made sure of that. He pulls a pen and an ink pad out of his pocket and slides them across the table.

“Yes, sir,” Barton replies with a mocking salute. "One condition," he says after a moment of skimming a page, "I choose my weapons. You hand me a rifle, I'm out. I’m just saying, my choices are not…orthodox."

"I know, and it’s in the contract, as we previously agreed. All you have to do is sign." Phil keeps his gaze level, calculated. Barton is good, he's seen his work -- unfortunately, his work isn't anything to be proud of.

This time, Barton's hesitation is devoid of his cocky playfulness.

"The 'work,'" he starts carefully. "Is it…?" Barton hesitates, a small line appearing between his eyes. Phil blinks and waits patiently for him to continue. "This isn't about me taking out rival politicians or preserving conspiracy theories, is it? I've heard weird things about SHIELD." And, what do you know it; Phil is actually a little surprised.

"We protect, Mr. Barton," Phil replies. "SHIELD is a part of the United States government, but we do not operate as such. If there is a threat to the American people, and, sometimes, the world, we handle it. We do not assassinate witnesses. We debrief them." Phil pauses to allow a Barton a moment to digest this. "Your work will be, entirely, to help the greater good. If you aren't comfortable with that--"

"Alright, okay," Barton mumbles, clicking the pen a few times before signing his name. Before Phil can instruct him, Barton flips the lid off the ink pad and adds his thumbprint. Phil stares at the black swirls of ink smudged against the white page for a moment until Barton shakes him out of it. "Have you heard yourself, Captain America? You actually believe that shit?"

"I do," Phil replies truthfully, taking back the contract. He tries not to smirk at the Captain America comment. SHIELD helps people, he has seen it himself. He just didn't expect Barton to be concerned about their mission statement. They haven't even discussed payment.

"So, first assignment, sir!" Barton says lazily, with an overdramatic salute.

"I'm not your handler," he replies, somewhat ironically, as he signs his name as the witness and co-signer, agreeing that Barton is his liability for the next four weeks. He doesn't tell him that, though, in case he decides to screw Phil over.

"Aw, but we've been through so much."

Phil takes a moment to glance over the contract, and realizes that Barton hadn't even filled in a suggested pay range and had agreed to the standard amount.

"We haven’t negotiated you salary yet," he says, because everything is signed and it's too late for Barton to change things now without a lot of tedious paperwork he's probably far too lazy to fill out.

Barton shrugs, mumbling "I don't care," and trying to look nonchalant. Phil knows how much money he’d been offered for his previous ‘jobs,’ and he knows which ones Barton chose. He decides not to mention that all of his known accounts are frozen for the time being, but he can’t leave it alone.

"Why?" he asks, knowing he won't get an honest answer.

"Why do I want to stop killing people for a living? You really have to ask that?" Barton says, trying to lean back in his bolted-down chair in vain and avoiding Phil's eyes. "I thought you were one of the good guys."

"It's not as simple as good and evil, or taking sides," Phil replies.  He stands up with the contract clutched in his hand and unlocks the door with a retina scan. "It's about protecting people. Helping people. Stopping who needs to be stopped."

"You _are_ Captain America," Barton snorts.

"Director Fury will be with you shortly," Phil says. He tries to hide his smile as he leaves.

*

Clint can't sleep. He tries, and should be able to. He's slept in worse places than a standard issue twin-sized mattress in a small, pitch black standard issue room with a standard issue bathroom and standard issue furniture.

Each time he closes his eyes, he sees Jim's face. He sees the puddle of blood, pooling out over the rooftop, his brains splattered at Clint's feet. He doesn't want to think about it, not when he looked over the roof at the sidewalk below and saw the other body there, blood mingling with water in the streets. He had smirked, forced himself to chuckle at the sight and walk away. He hadn’t had the last laugh, though, because someone had walked away from their suicide attempt.

When he closes his eyes, he sees a face, a laugh dying on the pale skin, empty eyes staring at the sky.

Clint gives up sleep for a lost cause, just as he has for the past few days. It's beginning to show in the form of giant bags underneath his eyes and a strain in the wrinkles on his face. He doesn't remember when he got those wrinkles. He thinks he might have been born with them.

The halls are relatively quiet, screaming of "office building," except with nicer tech, and workers carrying side arms. SHIELD HQ is in New York City, it turns out, which makes sense, considering how many strange showdowns seem to happen in the city. At least, they do on television. Clint has always kept off the radar whenever something big happens.

He manages to stay off the radar here, too. He has his SHIELD-issue workout clothes, uniforms, even pajamas with the logo patterned on them (he likes to imagine Nick Fury wearing them, eye patch and all). He blends in among the agents, and the suits keep their distance. He wonders when he'll get his first paycheck, so he can invest in some jeans and order a pizza. He wonders when he can get a flat – no, apartment. He wonders if SHIELD has frozen his accounts, or even which ones they know about, but he had been too cautious to ask Coulson at first. He'll find out when they aren't watching him so closely.

He figures they aren't watching him very closely at all if they're letting him train for so many hours a day, although he has pretty much recovered from the gunshot wound. He had passed almost every physical test put to him the first time (disguises and acting undercover have never been his strong point). His reading skills weren’t top par, considering he’d spent his teenage years balancing on a high wire instead of in a classroom, but that didn’t seem to matter much. Psych was hard to tell if you passed or failed. When he didn’t end up in a straightjacket at the end of his last session, he considered that a pass.

The gym is deserted at this hour. It's eerie, considering how crowded it had been earlier in the day, and how many curious glances he had shrugged off. A girl had tried to talk to him, hit on him a little, but something in his eye must have driven her away. It was probably for the best, anyways.

Clint does a few warm-up stretches to clear his mind and get his heart pumping. He decides on some weight training; it's been awhile since he had access to equipment this nice. Secret government agencies get all the best toys, he guesses. He finds a weird hi-tech music player that's hooked up to someone's Pandora (there's Britney Spears, and he laughs, because _seriously_?) and makes a Bee Gees station. Maybe he'll inspire them into getting some taste.

It doesn't take long for him to get back into it, to lose his thoughts in the spaces between consciousness and mindlessness. For twenty minutes he loses himself in it, sweat and movement and muscles building up to a slow burn. It feels good. He misses the pull of his bow beneath his arms, the feeling of loosing an arrow, the satisfaction of a direct hit. An overplayed Rihanna song comes on in the background and he almost sits up to go and change it, but the music stops by itself.

"You should be resting, Barton," Coulson says, appearing at his side. Well. He guesses _someone_ has been keeping an eye on him.

"Yes, _mom_ ," Clint rolls his eyes and gets to his feet so Coulson doesn't tower over him. "Have you seen the rooms here?'

"That's why no one lives on-base," Coulson replies.

"Then what are you doing here so late?" Clint asks. “Don’t you have a wife and two and a half kids to go home to?” He wonders if that's crossing a line, asking a question like that, not that it really matters. Coulson crosses his arms at that. He's all sharp and dark in his impeccable suit with its crisp edges; Clint feels dirty, grubby and covered in sweat and antiseptic smell from his stupid room and stupid SHIELD issued clothing.

"I’m too busy with filling out all the paperwork you’ve caused to have a life like that,” Coulson says without even a hint of regret, “and you’ll create even more for me you injure yourself further. Get some rest," Coulson says, turning on his heel.

"Yes, sir," Clint says with a smirk and mock salute. "Who assigned you to babysitting duty?"

"I'm not your handler," Coulson replies over his shoulder. "I could care less, really, if I hadn't been the co-signer on you contract and the four-week probationary period accountability agreement." And, wow, Clint really wishes he would have read the contract better now that he isn't pumped up with drugs and locked in a cell. Even though the medical room was nicer than his new one.

With that, Coulson walks across the gym and out the door. Clint hesitates before giving into a strange inclination to follow him. Coulson doesn't make any indication of knowing that Clint is tailing him, but he's smart and a member of a secret government organization. He knows.

Clint keeps on his heels as Coulson leads him through the lower levels of gyms and training rooms, past the cafeteria and medical facilities. He takes the stairs for eight floors, until Clint feels the wound ache a little. Finally, on a floor filled with mostly empty larger offices (some even have secretaries’ offices up front, although Coulson does not seem to be among them), Coulson steps through an office door. Clint hesitates outside, wondering why his impulses told him to follow Phil Coulson through SHIELD at 4:00 AM and why he's waiting outside the agent's office.

He turns the handle.

"This isn't rest," Coulson says conversationally from his desk, not taking his eyes away from the paperwork at his fingertips.

"For me, this is," Clint shoots back, taking up a chair and perching on the balls of his feet. He looks around the office, plain, simple, unassuming. "By all means, carry on, sir."

Coulson does, setting his mouth in a firm line and filling in line after line. Clint squints, reads the paper from his seat. It's all about him, Clint, his life story in black and white with a clichéd red "CLASSIFIED" stamp at the bottom of each page. He's proud of himself.

"It was the Thirtieth of March," he points out at one point, narrowing his eyes at what Coulson’s scribbling down in perfect handwriting.

"The blog didn't specify--"

"The blog posts are more concerned with storytelling than accuracy," Clint sighs, "Thirtieth. And there wasn't anyone else. It was me, one rifle, and a bunch of laser pointers." Coulson narrows his eyes.

"Whose idea--"

"Mine," Clint smirks. It was a nice touch, he'd thought. Confuse the enemy by using laser pointers and making him think he was surrounded. It was all about the threat.

Coulson makes a noise that could almost be considered appreciative. Clint watches him make corrections and thinks about how SHIELD has files on him and everyone he's worked with or against. If they can make a small error like that…

"Are you sure he's dead?" Clint blurts out suddenly, without thinking.

Coulson looks up at him and meets his eye. "Yes,” he says. Clint looks away.

"Holmes survived jumping off a fucking building," he mutters, "it wasn't supposed to work like that." Coulson sets down his pen and pushes his chair back from his desk a little.

"If you don't want to be here, you should have made that decision already. We don't take kindly to disloyalty."

"If I was avenging my dead boss from sixteen months ago, I'm not exactly disloyal, now, am I?" Clint snaps back, jumping out of his chair and swinging open the door.

The halls are slowly beginning to fill with very first of the early-morning agents and their large coffees. He ignores their looks and finds his way back to his room.

The room is still too cold and small and unfamiliar, making all of his senses pique as the walls scream _military_ at him. It's not his assigned quarters, it's his jail cell, his overly air conditioned prison. It sets his teeth on edge and suddenly he's back to thinking about dead eyes staring up into a cloudy blue sky

Clint stares up into the dark ceiling of his room for hours, still unable to sleep, his brain agonizingly replaying his argument with Coulson again and again.

"It's not avenging if Holmes didn't pull the trigger," he says out loud, because he needs to remind himself that it wasn't his fault. He still imagines what could have happened, though, if he had been sharp enough…a bullet to knock the gun from Jim's hand before he could put it into his mouth. But he wasn't good enough. He _isn't_ good enough.

"Fuck," he growls into his pillow, trying not to think about it. That strategy never works.

*

"Sir, I'd like Agent Barton for this mission," Phil says levelly. Fury looks up from a thick file to stare at him in disbelief.

"I would highly recommend Agent Holloway for this particular mission. He's a more than capable sniper," Fury says.

"Barton is better. He's seen organizations like this before, and he'll have a keener intuition."

"He's been here a week," Fury shakes his head. "Take your pick of anyone who isn't unstable and untrained." Phil just shakes his head slightly and barrels on through.

"Barton's trained. He passed every test -- physical, mental, written -- faster than most." Phil usually argues that the written test is obvious and anyone who spies on people for a living could lie well enough to pass through psych, but he's positive that Barton is as trained as he'll ever be for a SHIELD mission. Better yet, this is close to his territory (Not that Barton will have any idea about that. Phil isn't stupid). He's willing to overlook a few technicalities and take the risk if it means a successful mission.

"Barton has been working harder than a quarter of our agents, and he's a hell of a lot better," Phil continues bluntly. "He's getting bored here, and he's getting anxious because of it. If we don't give him something to do, he'll find something himself." Fury considers, a million terrible scenarios burning through his mind. Phil keeps his gaze steady. He knows how to convince Fury.

"Fine," Fury says, nostrils flaring. "I will trust your judgment. But, I am holding you personally responsible for anything that goes wrong, and you'll bring Holloway just in case Barton turns on us," he says. "Some other agents have registered their suspicion with me," Fury says steadily, "too many missions have gone south recently, so we're on the lookout for a mole. Be careful."

"Yes, sir," Phil says simply, without blinking. Even simple rumors of a double-agent in SHIELD…this could jeopardize everything they have been working towards.

"Everything on paper until I give the word. Do not let anyone else even glance at this folder, do you understand? That package cannot fall into the wrong hands." Fury dismisses Phil with a wave of his hand.

"Yes, of course, sir," he nods. He picks up the mission file and opens the thick, soundproof door of Fury's office, thinking about how he'll have to brief Barton and a handful of other agents. He has more research to do, paperwork to fill out, and weapons to request before they can get this off the ground. He has twenty-four hours. It'll be a long night.

He’s just closed the door behind him when he nearly runs into Barton himself. Their reflexes are quick, and they stop an inch away from collision.

"Sir," Barton says with his usual smirk.

"Agent Barton," Phil says calmly, trying to sound as formal as possible. "I have your first mission." Barton glances at the manila folder in his arms.

"You still use those ancient things? I thought you had tech," Barton crosses his arms.

"Servers can be hacked. Can't risk compromising the mission before it's even started," Phil says.

"Didn't know I was up for those kinds of missions yet." There's the smirk again, self-satisfied and assured. Phil feels his stomach clench at that, and he's suddenly irrationally angry at this ex-con, this _kid_ who has come into his place, certain that he's the best already.

"We'll see," Phil answers, turns on his heel, and heads down the hallway with the folder clutched underneath his arm, leaving Barton at the door of Fury's office. He doesn't turn back, but he catches a glimpse of that smirk again, the next time he turns a corner.

Barton is following him. He follows Phil through the hallways, past small clichéd water cooler crowds (they usually disperse whenever they see Agent Coulson heading their way with a stony stare, anyways), and even through the canteen on Phil's coffee pick-up. At first, he doesn't let himself be bothered by it. Then, he ducks into an open door and waits a moment. Glancing out, he can see Barton leaning against the wall at the other end of the hallway, eyebrow raised, arms crossed in a challenge.

Phil smiles awkwardly at the confused looking agent in the office he has intruded and ducks out of it, quickly darting through the hallways without actually running. He turns a corner, goes around the same loop twice, hides in a bathroom, and takes a shortcut through one of the gyms, and even steps into a dark broom cupboard for a few minutes before sprinting up the stairs. He greets the one strange stare he gets with an apologetic, "late for a meeting" (although he's never late), and finally, _finally_ , ends up outside of his office with Barton nowhere in sight. He can't help but feel some sort of childish victory over it.

"Tag, you're it," Barton says, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Damn," Phil says levelly, turning a little. He lets out a sigh that's really a chuckle. Barton's smirk morphs and he beams, sarcastic and very…pleased with himself. Phil feels resentment build a little again -- this new guy is distracting him, playing with him. He shakes it off. He's just laughing. Just a little.

Phil clutches the folder over his chest and turns away from Barton, unlocking his office door with a fingerprint scan.

"You're supposed to try to tag me back," Barton teases.

"I will," Phil replies, not looking up again. He holds the door open with his foot and steps inside. "When you least expect it."

The door shuts in Barton's laughing face, and he feels a little bit better when they're on separate sides of it. He has work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Coulson's voice crackles through his headset and sets his teeth on edge. Clint isn't used to using comms like this, sharing an open line with a group of people. It’s strange. He's supposed to have their backs, and they're supposed to have his. He hasn't been on a mission like this, with teamwork and cooperation, in a very long time. If even a small thing goes awry, if the main target and yet-to-arrive weapons dealers notice they're here, everything goes down the drain. But he can take all of them out in moments.

That doesn't change the fact that Coulson has set another sniper on the rooftop behind and above him, conveniently where Clint can be apprehended, if need be. Coulson knows better to trust him, and Clint almost respects him for it. Except he doesn't, because Coulson has not yet done anything to earn his respect. (A shot in the gut does not create respect, he reminds himself, and he’d cheated by sneaking up on him anyways.)

The bow that SHIELD has given him isn't the best he's ever used. He expects that to change. He’d told the scientist guy, Coulson, and, hell, anyone who was within earshot in R&D that he wanted something better. The arrows they gave him are average, nothing special. Yet. He'd seen a few explosive ones they were working on -- he'd tried to make one of those before, but it was rare that a job required arrows, much less explosive ones. He'd taken one of the prototypes, sneaked it out with the rest of his quiver of normal arrows. Coulson had probably noticed, but hadn't said anything. He wonders what that says about trust.

For now, it'll have to do. It's just nice to feel the pull of the string, the balance of an arrow in his fingers, the tension as he nocks an arrow and points it at the target, dying to loose it and feel the tension fly. Clint smiles to himself when he becomes conscious of his thoughts; it's like he's narrating porn in his head. He feels ridiculously sad, but no one has ever wanted an assassin who prefers medieval weaponry to a gun. Guns are useful, sure, but they don’t present _options_.

"Barton--" Coulson's voice interrupts his thoughts, so he interrupts Coulson.

"He's just come out in the open. I have a clear shot," he says quickly. He hears Coulson exhale a little.

"Don't interrupt me. Hold your fire. He's waiting for someone to arrive, and so will we." The voice is strained, a little, and Clint wonders what Coulson knows that he isn't sharing. Clint berates himself a little, for unprofessionalism, for not being used to reporting to someone like that. He has always made his own calls, even if he hasn't always set his own targets.

The target reaches for something at his hip and Clint tenses at his bow, waiting for even a hint that he's pulling out a weapon. It's a Blackberry. As the guy pulls it out to make a call, Clint presses a button on his wrist that puts him on a private channel with Coulson.

"Something's wrong," he mutters without moving his mouth.

"Something you can't share with the rest of the class?" Coulson shoots back.

"I've seen deals like this before. If he was contacting the dealers, he'd have a cheap phone. Disposable. His life is on that phone, and he's not contacting some throwaway -- DOWN, DOWN!" he shouts, rolling across the rooftop a moment before a bullet lodges itself into the space where he was a moment ago. Clint ducks behind an elevator service room for cover and glances around the corner.

"Agent Holloway, cease fire. I repeat, cease fire," Coulson says into the open comms, but that doesn't stop him.

"Seems you've got a double agent," Clint says into the private line, nocking an arrow as he speaks. Holloway was crouched behind the lip of the roof when Clint had last seen him, a phone glinting into his pocket. Clint risks rising up to see their target fleeing the scene in a car. He raises his bow and zeros in on it. "Coulson, target --"

"Clarke, Roberts, from the east. McCoy, you come in from the west." The open comm is compromised, Clint thinks. From his position, he can see them all doing nothing of the kind, obeying Coulson's hand signals and keeping out of Holloway's line of sight. Judging by the bullets that go whizzing over his head, Holloway's position has shifted to follow Coulson's red herring. Clint had expected more from a SHIELD trained agent, regardless of their loyalties. He ducks a little and aims at the target on the ground again, ready to put a few arrows in his car tires before he can speed off the scene.

"Barton," Coulson's voice comes through their private line, steady and clipped, and Clint hesitates. “Keep under cover. Focus on Holloway. Disable him, but do not kill him. Can you do that?" Clint scoffs a little, of course he can, but something else picks at the edge of his brain and makes him hesitate.

"With all due respect," he starts, aiming into the distance, to the right, and shooting down another sniper. He turns, left, right again, shooting two arrows and reaching two victims. He hears distant shouting and the sounds of a car engine revving. The target is ready to go, and he hears Coulson shouting orders on the ground to Clarke and Roberts, telling them to stop the car. His voice comes faintly through their private line, not meant for Clint’s ears, but he knows what he has to do. They’ll never make it. He’ll have to move fast.

He's still behind the handy cover of the elevator room when he realizes that Holloway's position has shifted. He's lost his cover. Clint runs across the rooftop, nocking another arrow. He reaches the edge and jumps, high and long, shooting at the car; one, two, three arrows in the tires and it skids to a stop. Clint lands on the adjacent rooftop and rolls to break his impact. He's barely up on his feet again before he's shooting at Holloway. The double-agent ducks for cover and all Clint can see is the barrel of his gun, poking through the barriers of the roof.

"Agent Barton!" Coulson's voice says almost angrily through the comms, but Clint has been ignoring him for the past few minutes and will continue to do so until he's neutralized all of the threats.

Clint reaches into his quiver and chooses the prototype explosive he'd taken from R&D. The explosions he'd seen them test were small, enough to do damage but not really kill anyone unless precisely aimed. Clint knows where to aim. He has become very intimately acquainted with the different way there are to kill someone.

He nocks the arrow and suddenly wishes he had had time to practice with it; the weight, the skinny cylinder of the explosive that ends in a dull point, everything about it is unfamiliar to him. But Holloway is shooting at him and he doesn’t have time. Clint takes a slow breath, aims, draws back the string, and releases. He rolls away from a spray of bullets a moment after.

He doesn't see what happens next, but he hears it.

Holloway's gun explodes.

"Barton," Coulson says almost immediately into their personal link, "did you--"

"Just shoot an explosive arrow into the barrel of his gun? Yes," he answers triumphantly, standing up and looking around. The area is clear, agents are on every surrounding rooftop arresting or body-bagging snipers, and the target is in handcuffs.

"Purposely disobey orders using stolen equipment just so you could show off?" Coulson finishes. There isn't any amusement, no impressed cadence to his tone, and Clint isn't sure how to deal with that. He'd been given his orders, and he'd obeyed them, yes, but on his own terms. He's out of SHIELD and he knows it, regardless of getting the job done. Eight days in and he's already back on his own again. _At least I got some Kevlar armor out of it_ , he thinks to himself.

"Agent Barton--" Coulson starts, but Clint wordlessly pulls the comm from his ear, peels off the wristband, and snaps the chain on his dog tags. There will be trackers sewn into his suit and bow, too, he realizes, but he needs those right now. It doesn't take him long to scale the fire escape and make it to the ground. The pavement is hard beneath his feet, the alleyway deserted. He makes an effort not to let his footsteps echo and sprints down it, taking a left, a right, another right around the corners, past steaming sewer covers and stinking dumpsters.

Before he knows it he's back in the city streets again, looking very conspicuous with his bow, quiver, and tight outfit. It doesn't take him long to find cover.

*

Inside the glove box (The glove box? Really? If Phil ever switches sides, he'll be a revolutionary.), he finds the package, disguised in an eyeglass case, of all things. He opens it and finds the camera phone, carefully wrapped in brown paper. Agent Clarke appears beside him and holds open a black box. He places the phone inside and locks it with fingerprint and retinal scans, as well as the sixteen digit password Fury had given to him and him only.

"Sir, Agent Barton has gone AWOL," Clarke reports as they walk back to their car. "Would you like us to pursue?" Phil hands her the box and pulls the communicator out of his ear, handing it to her. She looks down in surprise.

"I've got this," he says, "don't report this back to SHIELD yet. We've…taken a detour."

"Sir--" she says as he moves to head down the alleyway where Barton had disappeared. Phil turns back. "Are you sure you don't want back up?" Clarke asks. He smiles and shakes his head.

"No thanks. Carry on with the cleanup. I know you can handle it." With that, he turns on his heel and briskly follows Barton’s route. Clarke is dependable, she'll mold into his place quite easily. He reminds himself to recommend her for promotion.

It doesn't take him very long to find Barton. The tracking device he has in his pocket tells him that the rogue agent had discarded everything except the trackers in his suit and bow. Ten minutes pass, and finally, five dots disappear on his device. Phil shoves it back in his pocket and pulls his sunglasses out. He doesn't need to work to blend in, all it takes is his suit and an abandoned newspaper snatched up from a bench and rolled up in his hand, and he looks like a normal businessman on his lunch break.

He pops into a Starbucks, orders a _tall_ caramel macchiato, a plain, black _venti_ coffee, and a slice of banana nut loaf. Scouting out the place, he notes the weapons (hot coffee, potted plant, chairs, tables, lamp, coat rack, even a young college student's mechanical pencil) and exits (door to the back behind the counter, two front doors). He sits in the table at the corner with two chairs, right across from the bathroom.

Thirty seconds later, Barton walks out of the bathroom. He's freshly changed into a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Barton spots Phil immediately as he automatically scopes out the place. He tenses up, glancing around, and Phil sees everything he does as a potential weapon, just waiting to be used.

Phil shakes his head ever so slightly.

Barton's shoulders sag. He takes the seat across from Phil and sets his backpack on his lap. Phil pockets his sunglasses so he can meet Barton's eyes. They're grey and almost guilty.

"Well," Barton says awkwardly, looking away. Phil pushes the cappuccino towards him and breaks the banana nut loaf in half. "How did you know this was my favorite?" he says, obviously trying to break the awkwardness with some of his supposed charm. Phil refuses to give into it.

"You're a nut," Phil replies instantly, taking a sip of his coffee. Barton very pointedly does not touch his cup, so Phil pops off the lid and takes a swig to relieve his suspicions. He winces at the taste, oversweet and overpowering.

"That doesn't mean anything," Barton says, crossing his arms. "Maybe you've been spending the last few years building up immunity to iocane powder."

"I would never assassinate anyone who dares to quote The Princess Bride while they're being threatened with insubordination charges," Phil shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee to clear out the sickening sweetness. "Unless they liked Starbucks, maybe." Barton puts an offended hand on his chest.

"You wound me," he says seriously, taking an obviously restrained bite of his half of the banana loaf. He finishes the rest of it in two bites, so Phil passes his half over. Barton is exhausted from the adrenaline that's working its way out of his system, just as Phil is, but he’d jumped across a few rooftops and saved all of their lives. The banana bread is a small sacrifice.

Barton chugs half of the cappuccino, licking foam off his upper lip. Phil's eyes watch him closely and Barton lets the side of his mouth pull up in a smirk. "You'd probably get it for offing one of your agents in a Starbucks, anyways."

"You’re not one of my agents; I'm not your handler. It wouldn't be the first time," Phil shrugs. He has never looked at coffee in quite the same way again.

"Wow. What do you have against Starbucks, anyways?"

"Their sizing methods are ridiculous and disorderly," he says, "I don't like things that are ridiculous and disorderly. They're inconvenient," he says pointedly. Barton breaks off another piece of the banana bread, tosses it into his mouth carelessly.

"But they're fun," he replies, a challenge in his eyes. Phil meets his gaze, holds it.

"And that's perfectly fine, until someone comes into a Dunkin Donuts and orders a _grande_."

"No one but an idiot would go into a Dunkin Donut and order a _grande_. Starbucks is the one that's got the wacko sizing system."

"When someone walks into a Starbucks and orders a medium, the barista explains that they really mean a _grande_ and waste about thirty seconds on someone who just wants a coffee, or," he nods at the drink in Barton's hand, "something painfully sweet."

"You ordered it."

"You like it."

Barton chugs the rest of the caramel macchiato and shoves his last few bites of banana nut loaf into his mouth. He stands up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. Phil gets to his feet and holds his coffee loosely in one hand. He'd really not like to have to throw it in Barton's face. He'd like to enjoy an entire cup (even Starbucks) without having to use it as a weapon, just this once.

"What do we do now?" Barton asks, snapping the lid back onto his empty cup and throwing it into the trash can across the little shop. The barista stares.

"That's up to you," Phil says, pulling his sunglasses out of his pocket and making an effort not to even blink in reaction to the blatant flaunt.

"Nice shades. You aren't going to pull out a light and wipe my memory, are you?" Barton asks.

"Is that going to be necessary?" Phil's eyes are hidden now as he watches Barton carefully; he keeps the rest of his face set and his hand clenched around the flimsy coffee cup.

"I'll go back," Barton says, "I'll play well with others, I'll obey orders. But I won't be underestimated again."

Phil nods. "As you wish."

 


	3. Chapter 3

Director Fury "invites" Clint into his office a week after the chaotic mission when he’s in the middle of a training session in the gym. Clint is sweaty and uncomfortable in the air conditioned room, while Fury looks just peachy. He supposes it's rather the point. He lets himself be stared down by the single eye and stands without wavering. He had filled out all of the paperwork left in his room, hadn't he? (Well, sort of.)

"Sit," Fury says.

"I'd rather stand," Clint says, crossing his arms. He isn't intimidated by this charade. Not that he'll show, at least.

"Then I'll get right to the point," Fury replies. "Agent Coulson likes you."

"Director?"

"Reading through the lines of his last report," Fury says, holding up an impeccably written file, "you were insubordinate. On your very first mission, _agent_." Fury emphasizes the last word in an attempt to remind Clint of his place. He's seen this tactic before.

"I prefer the term 'creative,' director," he shrugs.

"I suppose you've come to an agreement with him," Fury sighs. "I like Coulson. But he's fond of you, even though you follow him around like a puppy trying to trip him up by biting his ankles. I don't like my best agents sticking their necks out for insubordinate little shits." Fury throws a folder at him and he catches it deftly. "Your next mission will be with Agent Hill. Give Coulson some space, make some new friends," Fury shakes his head a little, "learn to work with a team, or learn to pretend to. I have more important things to worry about."

Clint doesn't even wait for him to dismiss him; he just stands up and leaves without another word. He still isn't sure why he's at SHIELD. It's safe, he supposes, as long as he stays on their good side, but he isn't making _friends_ in any sense of the word. Coulson does not count as a friend. He hasn't had a friend in a long time, hasn't met anyone who gave a shit about him in years.

He flips through the file absently, noting the obvious gaps in information where things have been cut out, just for him. Of course SHIELD doesn't trust him yet. They don't have a reason to.

He decides to drop the folder off in his room and head back to the gym to train more. He'll read through it later, and then go down to R&D to see if they've actually listened to any of his input on the explosive arrows. He flips through the folder once more as he walks -- something about a terrorist cell in Karachi.

Phil Coulson rounds the corner. Clint can't explain it, the base instinct he has is to run, but he doesn't. He keeps his pace and looks away, at the floor, so he doesn't have to make eye contact. Coulson passes him without acknowledgement (really, why should he?) and Clint relaxes.

"Tag," Coulson taps him on the shoulder and he stops in his tracks.

"Damn," Clint swears, trying not to smile when he turns around. Coulson's mouth betrays the barest hint of a smirk. It's been seven days since he'd seen him in the mission debrief. He expects Coulson to make a crack about being surprised he’s still here. He doesn't. Clint fumbles for what to say next.

"I’m just heading to the gym. Wanna spar?"

"I'm going to get some coffee, do you--?"

They chuckle awkwardly as they speak at the same time, making Clint feel like an idiot. He doesn't say anything for a moment, cursing himself for speaking in the first place, because now he has to hang out with this guy, whether he likes it or not.

"I don't think they have enough sugar in the cafeteria for your coffee," Coulson jokes, "so, unless you're tired of training…" He gestures vaguely at Clint's already sweaty clothes, making him feel self-conscious.

"Fury called me to his office," he shrugs. "I've got an hour or two of scheduled time left. If you're up to it, that is," Clint teases with a growing smile on his lips.

"You're on," Coulson says. "It's been too long since someone has actually wanted to spar with me."

The moment they enter the gym, heads turn. Someone lowers the volume of the music and everyone stops in their tracks, dropping weights or pausing treadmills. Clint wonders what the big deal is. He turns to Coulson, who gives him a wry little smile.

"You don't want to change into something more comfortable?" he asks, voice all too loud in the awkwardly hushed room. Coulson is still wearing his suit. Clint had never noticed that his shirt was faintly striped before now. “That seems a bit…impractical.”

“I always go into battle fully dressed,” Coulson says, “I’ve more than proved the practicality of a suit and tie.”

Clint backs up onto the mat, crossing his arms and raising a challenging eyebrow. “I guess we'll find out."

Coulson really smiles now, joins him, and faces him. He blinks and says, in his calm and collected voice, "You sure about this?"

"Shut up," Clint replies, and rushes at him with a smirk.

It doesn't take him long to find out that Coulson is not just a pencil pusher, not just an office worker or supervisor for a mission here or there. He is muscle; sheer, hard, hidden muscle the evidence of long hours spent building up his strength. More than that, he's fast, trained to a point, brutal and quick. It's been a long time since Clint has been challenged like this, and he throws himself into it. He's used to fighting off idiot bodyguards, all brawn and no brains, or using a gun instead of his fists.

Clint laughs as he dodges a few punches, and Coulson raises an eyebrow.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because I know something you don’t know.”

Coulson blinks a few times and smiles, “And what is that?”

“I…am not left-handed,” Clint continues. It’s true, too, he’s ambidextrous, but he switches his dominant side anyways and throws blows Coulson’s way.

“You are amazing,” Coulson says obligatorily, blocking a few punches and trying to trip Clint up.

“I ought to be, after twenty years.” He tries to flip Coulson and ends up on his back, so he uses his legs, twists, and lands Coulson on his back as well.

“Oh, there’s something I ought to tell you,” Coulson continues as he tries to pin Clint onto the mat.

“Tell me,” he gasps, trying to roll away.

“I’m not left-handed either,” he continues, punching Clint hard once, twice with his right hand. If he’d be a bit more exact about it, he could bruise ribs.

“Are they quoting The Princess Bride?” someone mutters, and he laughs again. Clint catches him in a headlock for a few moments. When Coulson flips him, Clint rolls lightly and lands, standing, on his feet. It's a trick he learned from the circus, and, judging by the surprise in Coulson's stance, that's how he's going to have to play it. He relies on his old training and instincts, dodging every blow, being light on his feet and quick in his every strike. Coulson is out of breath after a few minutes, but so is Clint.

"Is that all you got?" he taunts, against his better judgment. Coulson doesn't reply, just moves more quickly than Clint has seen him yet and lets loose a series of punches that Clint barely has time to deflect. He tries to go back on the defensive, but Coulson uses the holes in his defense to flip him down, head spinning, onto the matt, scissor his legs between his own, and hold his hands in a viselike grip.

"Uncle," Clint breathes after a moment, but Coulson doesn't let up for a moment. "Uncle, uncle," he says louder, "I surrender. Raise the white flag. You won. Jesus Christ," he says as Coulson stands up and steps away. Clint rolls over onto his back to breathe, presses two hands over his face to block out the stares of the bystanders and the glaring fluorescent lights. There is an itch all over his skin when he replays that in his head. He’s disappointed in himself. He’s been beaten by Coulson _again_. He feels a strong urge to go to the range and let a barrage of arrows loose until he can beat his best records, if there is even a range here big enough.

"You gave me a run for my money," Coulson admits modestly, gesturing to the people milling around and hiding smiles behind their hands. " _They_ gave up months ago." Their audience dissipates at this, back to their own attempts to refine their deadly fighting skills. (That’s a little terrifying when he thinks about it too much.)

"You are a fucking ninja. I am glad I switched to your team right now," Clint says in an attempt at a confident babble. Coulson reaches out his hand, offering it to Clint, but he stands up on his own with what's left of his wounded pride.

"Agent Barton, Agent Coulson," a voice says to his left, interrupting them. Clint turns. It’s a woman, way too serious and surveying him far too critically. He wonders how big the stick up her ass is.

"Agent Hill," Coulson nods in a friendly greeting, actually smiling at her. Clint looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He is at least a little satisfied to see Coulson broken out in a sweat.

Hill turns to face him without introducing herself. "I wanted to brief you on the mission so you could familiarize yourself with the new rifle R&D has developed." Oh, _hell_ no.

"If I may interrupt," Coulson says politely, "Barton's contract states that he is allowed to choose his type of weapon." Hill considers this, and Coulson, for a moment before crossing her arms and turning back to Clint.

"Type?" she scoffs. "Look, agent, I know you're new, but--"

"But I'm still the best--"

"Barton's choice will be more than sufficient," Coulson interrupts. Hill turns to glare at him.

"Look, I understand that when your agent is on your missions--"

"He's not my agent, Hill. He doesn't have a handler yet, and unless you're volunteering…?" When she just squints at him, Coulson smiles at her, actually propely smiles, and says, "Then you’ll have to honor his contract. Now, if you'll excuse me…” he turns on his heel and leaves the gym. Clint blinks and looks from Coulson’s retreating back to Hill, wondering what kind of story there is there.

"If you screw up my last mission as a senior agent, I will personally make sure you take the fall," she spits, voice low and held from the audience. She turns on her heel and leaves before he can get the last word in, not that he'd know what to say at this point, after being upstaged by Coulson's sassiness. Seriously, he thinks, the man is like an onion. But not an ogre. A senior agent, apparently, wherever that puts him in the grand scheme of things. Definitely too high to be bothering with him.

Clint suddenly realizes that he's standing in the middle of the gym, staring into space. He blinks a few times, turns to glare at what’s left of their audience, and heads off towards the showers.

*

It's late by the time Phil finishes his paperwork. SHIELD is never quite empty, but the only person he sees on his way out is the security guard. He hands over his briefcase for inspection and walks calmly through the metal detectors before being cleared. He keeps an eye out as he heads to the parking deck. He checks in the backseat automatically, but it's empty. It would take an idiot to hide out in an agent's car the close to SHIELD headquarters.

The roads are dark and his mind wanders as he drives back to his apartment. He hasn't been home in a few days, not that there's anything to go home to except a few hours of mindless television and a bed much more comfortable than the couch in his office.

Phil pulls up to a twenty-four-hour convenience store (weapons: practically everything, escapes: door to back room behind the counter, front door, breakable windows) to buy milk, eggs, and bread. He's paying the cashier when he spots it through the window: the black car, shiny and fancy and way out of place in this neighborhood. He doesn't react; just smiles blandly at the tired looking guy behind the counter and folds his change into his wallet. It's a shame he'll never be able to come here again; he likes this store.

Barely a moment after he steps out of the store, the car pulls right up to him and the back door opens.

 _Get in_ , a voice says in his mind. It's like tires on a gravel driveway, rough and demanding. Phil tightens his grip on the thin plastic grocery bags, and obeys. The moment the door closes behind him, someone shoves a bag over his head and pats him down for weapons. They take his gun.

The ride doesn't take long. Phil tries to keep track of the twists and turns the car makes through the streets. When they stop, he quickly surmises that they're in an empty warehouse on the far side of the city. They're very predictable.

 _Get out_ , the voice says again. The door opens and Phil steps out cautiously, still clutching his grocery bags. He looks over everything quickly, analyzing exits and the paths through the stacks of wooden crates. It's just a normal storage warehouse, nothing they'd ever use again. Besides the groceries and the guns strapped to his escorts’ sides, there isn’t anything he could use as a weapon. There is a very small chance of escape.  

The driver of the car is a woman he’s never met before, tall, with rippling muscles. She's a fighter, that's for sure. The man is not. He’s pale and skinny in the harsh headlights of the car, staring Phil down, hand twitching at his side. He knows he wouldn’t be able to fight him, either.

Phil runs through five scenarios in which he could use his eggs and milk as weapons while he escapes.

 _Don't try anything_ , he says, and Phil will not. He never has.

"Seems a bit dramatic just for a meeting, don't you think?" he says when the stop. Phil knows what's going to happen next, someone's going to step dramatically from behind a crate and start talking at him. Same old story every time. "You could have just called me."

"I find that surprise makes things a bit more…interesting," the cloaked figure says as he steps out from behind a crate. Phil bites back a comment on this particular agent's penchant for theatrics and sets his groceries on the ground. "Do you have --?"

"If I may?" he asks, ripping open a seam in the lining of his suit and pulling a few papers out. He holds them out and the man snatches them away. "I didn't know you were planning on calling on me tonight, or else I would have snuck out the rest," Phil says carefully. These people have no patience or grasp on reality. "They'd notice if I took out an entire drawer of--"

"You've had time."

"You don't understand. Security is being tightened. After the attack by Holloway--"

"You are proving to be unreliable, Coulson," the figure says, "We expected much more from someone with your abilities. You are not living up to your promises. You will not fail me again." He can't even count on both hands how many times he's heard that one. Any minute now he'll be expected to mindlessly bow and scrape and chant 'yes, Master.'

"I wasn't aware that I had failed you," Phil shoots back, wondering when his protests will be interrupted. Patience is a virtue, alright, considering how the virtue-less seem to lack it entirely. "I am doing everything I can to get--"

 _Shut up. Don't move._ Phil freezes.

"It is _not enough_! I do not take kindly to this behavior, Coulson. I will not allow my agents to create slack unchecked." Phil doesn't say a word, doesn't move, not even when he sees the glint of a knife in the cloaked man's hand and the flash of it moving towards him.

He doesn't move, not even as the knife plunges into his torso once, twice, pain and blood blossoming in his gut. He doesn't even drop his groceries, although his world is spinning and he needs to _breathe_ ….

"Dump him outside of his flat," he hears, and, slowly, he feels himself crumple to the ground. He tries to hold on to consciousness, but it slips away from him slowly. "Take his wallet. He'll survive and need to explain his injuries," the voice chuckles, and he feels himself being searched, his gun, wallet, watch, all taken from him. He can't move, can't breathe, feels something pressing down on his mind. It's like a black curtain, comforting and peaceful, but he fights against it.

Phil screams and blacks out.

*

Karachi is dry and hot when he arrives in the helicopter, but that doesn't stop the warehouse from being musty and damp. Somehow, they always are, the clichéd base of operations that every semi-secret organization has. Amateur or expert, Clint has seen them all. (Well, mostly he's seen them through holes in their roofs or dusty windows, but crouching on the ceiling beams on this mission is no different.)

What Clint has never seen, however, is someone who could move that _fast_. There's something unnatural in the girl's sprint, in her blurry speed and exact punches. She’s almost too fast to see, even for _him_. It's beyond human. He wishes, very fervently, that someone had actually told him what the hell was going on here. He doesn’t understand the point of briefing him at all if they don’t trust him with the intel. He'd been given a handful of tranquilizer arrows and a new bow without much preamble other than a strict reminder from Hill to follow orders exactly.

Clint grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. He has been waiting impatiently for Hill's command to crackle through his comm, tapping his fingers against his bow. Her agents are being slaughtered down there, and they aren't even trying to kill the speedster. They had surrounded the warehouse first, confirmed their positions, and then stormed into it. That’s when he had dropped in, to offer support while Hill's agents on the ground tried to shoot the young woman with the super-speed with special guns and tasers. The girl had dodged all of the tasers, and they'd moved on to the tranq guns.

The tranquilizers -- the ones that actually hit their target-- still aren't working. Clint is dying to at least try to hit her. He knows he can. He sighs loudly and thumbs the taught bowstring.

"Hold your fire, Barton," Hill says through the comms, noting his impatience from her conveniently bulletproof perch. Clint sighs bitterly once more and stops fidgeting. He doesn't think Hill is going to use him at all at this point, although it would be over in a second if she did.

"Excuse me, Hill, but what exactly is your objective here?” he says after watching another agent fall to the ground. "This chick is crazy. I can get a tranq or an arrow in her in a second if you'd just let me. This strategy is getting more agents hurt than anything else."

"Barton--" she begins to snap back, but Clint doesn't hear the rest, because there's a sudden spray of bullets _in his direction_. Rolling out of the way on the narrow support beam, he leaps to the next one, ten feet in the air, just like jumping in the big tent back home. Well, kind of.

"Sorry, Hill, you had your chance," he mutters into the comms. Clint doesn't even wait for a reply. He just nocks two arrows and looses them at once, jumping from one beam to the next, and hopes that he hits the blur of a woman who is shooting at him with annoying precision. It's a hit, every time. She slows a little, almost to normal speed, and he fires all but the last of his handful of tranq arrows.

"Barton!" he hears yelled into his comm, "hold your fire!" But the bullets don't stop, so neither does he. Clint jumps away from another angry bout of gunfire, aiming at the target's forehead, and looses his last tranq arrow while he's in midair. He watches as it smacks right into her temple, looking away only as he skids across the next beam.

"Bolloc--shitshitshit that _motherfucker_ ," he mutters to himself, sincerely hoping that that shows up on the transcript of Hill's mission. He feels his weight work against his bad landing and misjudged jump. The force of it carries him over the edge, and he remembers falling from the high-wire onto a safety net. Feeling anything but safe.

Clint shakes it off and scrambles for purchase on the dusty beam, looping his bow over his shoulder and scraping his nails against the metal as the force of his misjudged jump carries him over the edge. He holds on by his fingertips and holds back a yelp, kicking his legs in a vain attempt at getting back up onto the beam. He glances down to the ground far below, where the target is falling over, still fending off agents with a handgun. But they've got her now, so all Clint has to do is pull himself up, which is easy. He's done it a hundred times...

There is a final shot before he watches the target slump over unconscious and disappear into a swarm of agents. He vaguely registers pain blossoming in his shin, sudden and sharp and biting through the pull of adrenaline through his veins. He hopes Hill is happy.

Clint hangs from his fingertips, pulling against the urge to give in to unconsciousness, the urge to fall, and _holds on_.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil wakes up to someone humming 'Stayin' Alive' very loudly, five feet to his left. He doesn't know where he is.

He jolts up, eyes widening, and looks around frantically before registering that he's in SHIELD Medical, room 17B (weapons: corded phone, chair, three ballpoint pens, a vase of flowers, a box of disposable gloves, and countless other things; escape: one door, retina locks, no glass). He's relatively safe, but he feels like he has a gaping hole in his stomach. Which, he surmises, he kind of does, if the memories scrambling for attention in the back of his mind serve him well.

They must have dosed him up on the drugs; Phil is sure he would have noticed Barton sprawled out on the bed across the room a lot sooner. He would at least be mentally catalogued as a shield, if not a weapon.

"Finally," Barton says with a sigh. "I was getting bored." Phil blinks. Barton looks decidedly out of place in a hospital gown, and seems very disgruntled to boot. "What're you in for?" he smirks, and Phil wonders what they've got Barton on for him to slur at Phil like that.

"Um," he says, looking down the neck of his gown. They've patched him up pretty well, stitches and gauze and the whole nine yards. Phil thinks back, to the other night, searching for some kind of memory that might help him string together a believable story. He's a fantastic liar -- it comes with the job -- but if the details don't match up he's screwed.

"Are you seriously going to play the retrograde amnesia card? Really? They aren't going to fall for that, they're dying to hear your story," Barton says. Maybe he's not as drugged up as Phil had thought. Before he can reply, Barton opens his mouth again. "We're both locked in here for a reason. Hill's trying to get me on insubordination or treason or something. You never mentioned she could be such a bitch," he mutters. "As for you, no one will tell me. So I figure either I don't have high enough clearance or even they don't know."

Phil squints at him a little, giving away nothing.

"Hill’s fair. What did _you_ do?" he asks, genuinely curious. He wonders what stunt Barton had pulled this time. He won't last another mission at this rate.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Barton smirks, and then points to where his shin is wrapped in sterile white gauze. Phil's eyebrows go up a little as he stares at the bared flesh. "Gunshot. Karachi. There was this chick, like, the Flash or something, and they weren't bringing her down. She shot at me, and I took the opportunity to take her out. Merry Christmas, a wrapped up package under the Christmas tree, but Hill yells at me and carts me off into medical. So then they bring you in, and won't let me out or tell me anything, except I’m facing insubordination charges, so that's just--"

"Do you ever shut up?" Phil asks. He doesn't know if he woke up with the headache. Probably. He needs more painkillers.

"No," Barton smirks. "Would _you_ like to share with the class?"

"I'm not going to lift up my skirt and show you, Barton," Phil says wryly, sitting back. It still hurts, but it's better than sitting up. "I was on my way to my apartment when a man attacked me, waved a gun around and demanded my wallet. I got the one guy, knocked him out cold, but there was another. He was too quick, came up behind me and stabbed me when I turned." He exhales, wondering whether anyone will buy his story. He hopes his groceries, his car; everything is in place as usual. He hopes he was actually found outside his apartment. He hopes security footage from the store has been altered. Usually, they aren't that sloppy, but they had been angry with him. If there's any record of what really happened, at least the number of attackers will match up.

"Huh," Barton says noncommittally, narrowing his eyes a little. He doesn't believe him. That's bad. If he can't convince Barton, then he sure as hell can't convince Fury.

"I guess I need to train a little harder," he sighs, trying to look disappointed in himself. "I've been spending too much time at my desk."

"If they ever let us out of the brig, we could spar again or something," Barton offers, shrugging, "they're all scared of me in there. They think it'll rub off on them if they're seen talking to the noob with daddy issu—no, wait, what do you guys call it? Insubordination syndrome."

Phil chuckles, and it hurts. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't reply, just sits back and stares up at the ceiling.

"That stain looks like Texas," Barton says randomly after a few minutes, pointing at a stain in the ceiling tile above his head.

"Or a cactus," Phil says, tilting his head a bit. "Maybe an upside down cowboy hat. I'm seeing a theme here."

"Power of suggestion," Barton mumbles, and starts humming the Bee Gees song again.

"Are you trying to be ironic?" Phil can't help but ask, seeing as he'd pegged Barton as an annoying Top Forty kind of guy.

"Huh?"

"Stayin' Alive? With us shot and stabbed and stuck in Medical?"

"No," Barton laughs, "I just like the song.” He pauses, and adds, “You should probably get some rest. If you haven't got your health, then you haven't got anything.”

And then he starts humming Britney Spears, just to step on Phil's bleeding and tortured last nerve.

*

Clint doesn't see Coulson for a week and a half after they release him to be yelled at by Fury and slapped with a pile of paperwork as a punishment. He feels like he's probably doing some of Hill's work, too, but it's not like he has to write his name and grade on the top. He almost wishes that his wound was significant enough to excuse sitting around so much, but it isn't as bad as he'd thought.

Clint heads down to one of the larger offices, full of cubicles of pencil pushers dreaming of adventure. He flirts with an intern until she does most of the paperwork for him. She's pretty, with flyaway dyed burgundy hair and a nervous smile. Her name is Mary, and he knows the moment she finishes the last form that she's about to ask him on a date.

"You know, I know that you're kind of new, but I've been here a few months and I could show you around. Maybe we could get --"

"Shit," Clint says as he purposely knocks over her wastebasket with his foot. "I am so sorry, let me get that," he says as he tosses everything back into it with precision.

"No, it's fine," she says, looking a little put out. "I was just saying--"

"Agent Barton!" a voice calls, and he thanks whoever it is, even if he's going to be yelled at again. "Barton," Coulson says, stopping at the interns' desk. She stands up nervously and looks at him like he's about to explode. "Fury's looking for you," he says, handing him a manila file with purpose. Clint looks down at it and raises his eyebrows.

"Uh, what did I--"

"Excuse us, Miss," Coulson nods. Clint grabs his paperwork from her desk and sends her a charming smile before following Coulson into the hallway.

Coulson frowns at him. "That was really rude, you know."

"What?" Clint says, looking at the manila folder. Coulson snatches it from his hand and puts it back on top of the stack he's carrying. "You're the one who--"

"Fury doesn't want to see your face for awhile, we both know that. I’ve gotten enough files handed to me with complaints about your behavior. You shouldn't flirt with unsuspecting interns unless you're willing to deal with the consequences." Coulson does seem to be going somewhere, if not leading him to Fury.

"Yes, mom," he rolls his eyes. "As if you can talk. You've been missing from your office for the past week. Staying out past curfew?"

"How would you know when I'm--" Coulson stops and sighs, creating an annoying traffic jam in the middle of the busy hallway. "Look, Barton, I don't have time for you today," he snaps, taking Clint's paperwork from his hands and setting it on top of his pile. "I'll turn in your homework for you to spare the unsuspecting secretaries, but you need to learn to grow up or you'll be out next time they trim the fat."

Coulson turns on his heel and leaves Clint standing in the middle of the hallway, feeling like an idiot.

"Who cares what he thinks?" he mutters to himself, one of the sure signs that he's going crazy. But Coulson is right, and he knows it as he heads back to his room, tail between his legs. If he doesn't start obeying orders, as stupid as they are, he'll end up back on the run from SHIELD. And he doesn't think he'll make it out as easily next time.

"Barton!" someone says sharply, and he looks up again, expecting…well, he doesn't know what he was expecting, but it sure wasn't the man in front of him. "Jasper Sitwell," he says, holding out a hand for Clint to shake. "Commander Hill tells me we'll be working together soon," he smiles. "I've heard you're quite a good shot." Clint groans inwardly. If Hill assigned this, it's going to suck.

"I'm kinda awesome," he says modestly, taking Sitwell's hand to shake.

"Good, because I've got just the job for you."

*

There is a bug in his phone, four cameras in his apartment, a tracker in his suit pocket, and one under the hood of his car. SHIELD knows something is up, and it isn't even his fault. Phil would be able to deal with it if it were his fault. He could live with his own mistakes, learn from them, fix them, and hate himself for them. But he can't rationally hate himself for the others screwing him over. As if Phil Coulson would let himself be overpowered and mugged outside _his own_ apartment.

The stitches in his stomach are taunting reminders.

For a moment after he walks into his apartment, he isn't sure whether or not he should be shown to notice the surveillance inside his apartment. On one hand, they'll think he's slipping if he doesn't recognize their best attempts at pulling the wool over his eyes. On the other, this might be a great chance to prove his innocence in relation to whatever suspicions SHIELD has.

"Shoot," he whispers as he sets his keys on the table, and he opens his laptop bag as though he's looking for something. He grabs the keys, flicks off the lights, locks the door, and walks down the hall into the elevator. It barely takes him a minute to get back into his car, and when he shuts the door his mind goes blank.

"I'm not here," a voice says from the backseat. Phil calmly ignores it, starts the ignition, and turns on the radio at a low volume and mouths a few of the lyrics. If they see his mouth move, they'll just think he's singing along to the music.

After a minute, the voice speaks again.

"You noticed your apartment is bugged," the man says.

"Actually, I noticed that I left a folder in my office that I need to look over this weekend," Phil says, taking his usual route back to SHIELD headquarters. It's dark out, but the traffic is still hell. It'll be a long enough ride for their conversation.

"You never leave anything in your office."

"I'm only human," Phil shrugs as he flicks on his turn signal.

"That's the thing, Coulson," Nick Fury says with a sigh as he drops a folder into the passenger seat, CONFIDENTIAL stamped across it in big, red letters. "We don't think you are."

*

The mission goes fine up to a point. Then, it all falls to shit, because Clint actually obeys orders this time and shoots the man on the left instead of the woman on the right. That's how he ends up running, on the ground, listening to Sitwell calmly relay orders into his ear like the mission isn't falling to pieces.

That's how he ends up flat on his back, wrestling off a huge guy with some kind of invisible skintight armor so tough it breaks the blade of his knife. At least, that's what he tells himself as the guy basically throws him across the warehouse floor (these warehouses are really starting to blend into each other, aren't they?). He tries to roll out of the impact, but he feels pain begin to blossom in his side. Bruised ribs, by the feel of it.

"Fuck," he moans, scrambling to get to his feet and get the hell away from the guy. It hurts to breathe and move, but there’s enough adrenaline running through his body to help him fight through the pain. He can think, he can even let loose a few arrows if need be, but he doesn't.

"Barton, can you get a shot at--"

"He's wearing some sort of… body armor. He's basically impenetrable," he says, reaching into a hidden pocket to grab some strange tasing discs a younger assistant from R&D had given him to test. Apparently the more junior agents are R&D's guinea pigs. Either that or he had been flirting with Clint. That’s been happening a lot.

"Do not engage," Sitwell orders. "Retreat, Barton."

"Easier said than done," Clint mutters into the comms, because the guy is blocking his exit. Clint lunges forward, dodging the man's sloppy punches and rolling past him nimbly. The guy just keeps on coming, so he throws two of the discs at him and pauses to watch. Tiny bolts of lightning shoot out of the discs and shock the guy, who shakes off electrocution with a roar to charge Clint.

"Shit," he swears, and bolts for the door.

He barely makes it into the waiting car before they're barraged by gunfire and the screech of tires.

"Barton," Sitwell starts from the driver's seat, but Clint is already climbing into the passenger's seat and hanging out the window with an arrow nocked on his bow.

"Got it."

*

"You wanted to see me, Commander Hill?" Phil says as he steps into Maria's new office (weapons: files, nameplate, ballpoint pens, paperweight, chairs, tablet computer; exits: door, ceiling vent, window) and shuts the very heavy, soundproof door behind him. It's even thicker than Fury's, which says something about the power of her shouting when provoked.

"It's about Barton," she says, turning her mouth down in undisguised disgust. Phil deflates slightly. He wonders what had happened during Sitwell's mission, but Maria pulls up a few files on her tablet and hands it over across the desk. He sits down and skims through it.

"I don't see--"

"He's being considered for termination," she says bluntly. "He's insubordinate, contemptuous, and, honestly, an asshole. I tried to deal with him, Sitwell tried, even Fury tried his hand at putting the fear of God into the kid."

"Sitwell didn't mark him insubordinate," Phil points out as he skims the last mission report. "' _Agent Barton used reasonable force when confronted by a hostile._ ' Considering that he didn't even know the man was a mutant, I’d say he adapted very well."

"That's not the point," Maria says, letting her hand fall onto the desk a little too hard.

"You think he's a plant." Phil sets the tablet back on her desk and meets the Commander in the eye. She looks away.

"A liability, yes. He's been injured on nearly every mission he's been on--"

"Two out of three."

"--and he's disobeyed direct orders multiple times. It's time we decide. Is Barton worth it? I vote no." Maria crosses her arms and frowns. It's more than a petty grudge. He can see it in how she's avoiding his gaze and the way she holds herself. He had thought that she was better than this. He’s always respected Maria for being reasonable and efficient.

"What does Fury say?"

"It's up to us." He sincerely doubts that, but if he goes to the director, the answer is clear.

"With all due respect," Phil says coldly, "I brought him in. I made the call. I'm the only agent who has worked with him and not landed him in medical. He's smart, and he isn't used to working with a team. But he'll learn. He's good, better than any other sniper we've ever had, and more than that, he wants to be the _best_. He doesn't want to be the castoff of some small-town consulting criminal. I believe, if we put a little effort into it, then he will, too."

Maria shakes her head a little, a dead tell that this is some kind of test that he's failing. Just for once, Phil doesn't care, because Barton does not deserve to get caught up in his little messy web right now.

"What did he say to convince you?" she sneers, and something is definitely wrong in the way she's treating him. "Is he a secret Captain America fanboy too, out to save the world to impress his fictional hero?"

He smiles wryly, because, for some reason, some people cannot grasp the idea that Captain America was _real_ – he’s read the old, ever-classified mission files.

"Barton stays. I brought him in myself. You’ve always trusted my past judgment.”

Hill's eyes bore into his back as he turns, and he hears what she doesn't say. What they're all starting to whisper, when he first got out of medical, when he first stepped out of Fury's office with a story that didn't match up with his ability to turn anything from a marshmallow to a napkin into a deadly weapon. Barton is _his_ recruit, and while a few months he would barely be worth a second glance, they've been going through everything Phil has been doing with a fine-toothed comb. Now is not the most convenient time to have a mouthy probationary agent with insubordination syndrome. And now, Barton is going to be _his_ responsibility.

"You'll be filling out all of the proper forms, then?" Maria says coldly before he shuts the door.

He doesn't dignify that with a response and leaves without letting Maria's secretary know how angry he is, even when the young man offers a sympathetic smile. He must hand out a lot of those.

Phil sighs as he walks back to his office. He wonders how he's going to break this to Barton, and decides that he really doesn't want to.

*

"So. Coulson," a young woman says, setting her tray of chicken salad down next to Clint in the cafeteria. She looks vaguely familiar, but it takes a moment for him to look past the freshly dyed blue-black hair. He stares at her for a moment before remembering her name is Mary. She's an intern in the offices, and one in the growing crowd of his admirers.

"No, I'm Barton, remember?" he shoots back, and then looks back to his own plate of disgustingly healthy food. He should probably ask her what forms he needs to fill out to order a pizza.

"No. You know what I'm talking about," Mary says with a knowing smirk. No one should look that smug while eating a salad.

"Yes, yes I do. Super-spy assassin, totally in the loop, are you going to eat that?" he swipes her brownie and breaks it in two, taking one piece for himself.

"Hey!" she says, and he feels a little bad for flirting with her just for food and paperwork. Not that she doesn't have a nice personality or anything. "You owe me the scoop now. What's up with Coulson?"

_What’s up with his angsty mood swing?_ Clint thinks wryly back to their chance meeting a few days back. With full knowledge that whatever he says is going to be overanalyzed at the next of the interns' bi-daily watercooler gossip meeting, Clint frowns and proceeds cautiously.

"Uh, I've been wondering that, too. Is he a robot or something? What's with the suit? Why isn't he --?"

"Cut the crap, I'm talking about the latest gossip." Mary rolls her eyes.

"I graduated high school a long time ago, kid," he says lazily, even though he didn't, "what's the word in the girls' bathroom?"

"Oh my god," she says. "You don't know. He just submitted the paperwork claiming responsibility for you as a full agent."

"So I'm hired?" Clint says, perking up. "Sweet. You don't know what forms I need to move out of here, do you? It's not exactly a five-star--"

"Really, Barton?" she says, twirling her fork in the air triumphantly. "Coulson signed on as your handler. Like, you're his bitch now."

"What the fuck?" Clint replies. He shoves his tray away from him, his appetite suddenly lost. "Oh, hell no, that was not in my contract."

"Pretty sure it was," she says smugly, "Coulson doesn't take on agents, either. The only thing he's attached to is his position. He's denied dozens of promotions." Clint doesn't think she's exaggerating that. Suddenly, she leans in overdramatically and lowers her voice, although practically everyone in the cafeteria is a trained spy and could probably listen in if they wanted to. "He's even under review right now for that business with the mugging."

"That sketchy retrograde amnesia shit?" he asks semi-interestedly. That's really none of his business, and he has tried to stay out of the gossip mill. Working with sharpshooters and murderers doesn't scare him at all, but interns? Nightmares.

"Yeah. They think, well, you know Josh from R&D? No? The cute one with the --" He vaguely remembers the assistant who had given him some stuff to test out on the field and flirted with him mercilessly. R&D Mohawk Kid.

"Mohawk, yeah, okay, moving on…"

"--I think he's kind of into me, I don’t know, we were talking--"

"Focus," he growls, and she starts a little.

"Anyways, they think he's, like, a --"

"Agent Barton, Miss Hannigan," a voice says from behind him, and Clint will swear to his dying day that it didn't startle him. Mary turns bright red.

"Agent Coulson," she says in an unnaturally high voice. "I just heard the good news."

"I suppose you've gotten to Barton first, then," Coulson says with a sigh. He sits down at the other side of their table, although he doesn't have any food, just a large coffee and a few folders. Clint thinks back for a moment and realizes that he's never actually seen Coulson eat. "Welcome to SHIELD, Barton," he says offhandedly, sliding one of the folders to Clint. He peeks inside; there are obnoxious forms about IDs, taxes, housing, vacation, anything he could think about.

"Ew," he says, not looking forward to hours crouched over the small print, trying to figure out whether to check column A or B or E12. "Hey, Mar…" he looks up hopefully, but she's already getting to her feet with her half-eaten salad and guilty expression.

"I'll see you around, then?" she says quickly.

"Yeah," he says. "Hey, wait -- about R&D Mohawk Kid --" she turns with a hopeful and confused look in her eye. "Maybe, maybe shoot for another target? Christine from Accounting?"

"Oh," Mary says, blue-black ponytail bobbing, "yeah, thanks." She smiles and leaves quickly. When Clint turns back to the table, Coulson raises a single eyebrow at him.

"Should your codename be 'Cupid'?" he says. “’Shoot for another target,’ huh?”

"Shut up," Clint mutters. "The interns have started following me around like I'm their mother."

"I don't think mother is what they have in mind," Coulson smirks a little. Clint pushes his tray away so he can groan into the table. "I warned you not to flirt with them. They'll either wise up or call your bluff."

"Shut up, mom," he moans. "I'm starting to hate this place. Interns, curfews, homework. Can I move out?"

"I'm not your mom. Form V-78 is request to find your own housing," Coulson offers helpfully, "and I requested that your other accounts be unfrozen." Clint perks up. “Turns out there _is_ a lot of money in revenge.”

"Is that legal?" Clint says, smiling a little at the reference.

"It's probably not ethical, but rent is high, and it's not like every SHIELD agent with sense doesn't have three or four secret accounts overseas and at least two safe-houses," Coulson shrugs. "Backup plans," he says. "Handy."

It's a really big hint, so Clint asks, against his better judgment, "and _are_ they coming in handy?"

Coulson stands up, pushing his chair away.

"I'll keep you posted on any situations requiring your skill set." With that, he turns and leaves Clint alone at the cafeteria table.

"Well then," Clint says to himself, picking at the remains of his SHIELD-approved lunch that he isn't going to eat. Maybe if he becomes the crazy agent who talks to himself, the interns will leave him alone. He bets the counselors down in Psych would love that. "It's gossip-stalking time."


	5. Chapter 5

Now that he's under a close watch, sneaking information out of SHIELD is getting harder.

Someone finally discovers that the last files he'd taken are missing. Phil had meant to copy them the night he snuck them out, but he'd been picked up and stabbed before he could do anything about that. The web of lies that he's spun begins to unwind at the edges, all because of a few stupid mistakes that his "employers" had made. He sees suspicion almost everywhere, in Maria's coldest gazes in the hallways, in the strange quiet that descends over the group of interns gossiping at the watercooler on his way past (they meet at 10:47 AM and 2:18 PM daily), and even in the gazes that follow him as he makes his way from office to office.

If only everything he needed was electronically stored. But they're still skeptical of keeping the most sensitive information in tech they aren't comfortable with yet. It's the 21st century, he thinks, get with it already.

Phil sticks to his office more, organizing and planning his next missions and waiting for Fury to assign him to any interesting developments. Without much to do, he keeps an eye on the radar; Sitwell is called into two emergencies in three weeks, the newly promoted Clarke runs several missions, and even Hill takes a case that should be below her new position. Everyone at his clearance level or higher is working harder. They're picking up his slack. All that's left on Phil's slowly emptying plate is Barton, and he just doesn't want to deal with that agent right now.

After he spends an entire uninterrupted afternoon in his office scouting the Internet for genuine collectables, he knows something has got to give. The higher-ups know he isn't stupid, he knows he's been put on uninformed probation, and they know he knows. The next move is his.

That weekend, he ends up in a comic book shop that's two blocks from his apartment (weapons: bookshelves, books, wall scrolls, sonic screwdriver, phaser pistol, lightsaber; escapes: back door, front door, secret trap door behind the counter that the owner thinks no one knows about but is very proud of). He gets every first and third Sunday off, barring emergencies, but he could probably take the entire weekends now if he wanted.

His tail --the fifth today-- looks bored as he flips through a box of Batman comics. Phil is somewhat distracted by the judgmental stare as he gazes critically at the Captain America trading card in the front display case. He's focusing more on how annoyed he is at SHIELD instead of the quality of the card and the argument he's having with the woman behind the counter about when the Doctor worked for UNIT. The bell on the door tinkles and he doesn't pay attention until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"I didn't know you really were a Cap fan," he hears, and Phil jumps to disarm --

"Barton?" he blinks, _damn_. He wonders what got Barton off the range, but he's wearing jeans and a leather jacket, so he must just be in the neighborhood. Although why, Phil can't guess.

"That's my name, don't wear it--oh, hey, Neil!" Barton says in a falsely cheerful tone, waving at Phil's tail. The SHIELD tail looks up, startled, and drops a comic back into the box. Barton winks. "Hey, tell whoever’s yelling into the comms about you breaking cover that if you’re going to tail an agent, you should probably send in someone he doesn't work with. Unless it's Hill, then you can just send her my love." Neil blinks a few times before rushing out of the shop, but that doesn't stop Clint from poking his head out the door to shout, "it's okay, I'll keep an eye on him for the rest of the afternoon."

"I'll pay for that later on," Phil sighs as Barton joins him at the counter. He sets down his purchases and smiles politely at the cashier, who looks like she's having a field day. He'll never be able to come here again without being pestered about what it's like to work for the Men in Black. "I'll take the card after all," he says, pulling out his wallet. She bags up his stuff and he turns to leave, but Barton has ducked behind some bookshelves. He sighs, wondering if he should just leave him here…but his curiosity gets the better of him.

"What are you looking for?" Phil asks, joining him at a shelf of manga, where he's running his finger over the spines.

"Judge me," Barton says, pulling out a volume of Death Note and flipping through it quickly. He already has a Legolas figurine in one hand.

"I didn't peg you for a geek," Phil says, skipping over the obvious comment about the elf. Barton just shrugs.

"Someone I lived with for a bit was into them. I got bored." He balances the volumes on the figurine's box and steps back from the bookshelves so he can see through the window better. "Wow, they're actually gone. Didn't think that would work."

"It didn't. They're just giving me more space."

Barton pays for his stuff and they finally leave the comic book store. It doesn't look like anyone is tailing him anymore, although they're probably still there, keeping a respectful distance.

"Well," Phil starts, "I suppose I'll see you arou--"

"Nope," Barton says, shoving his hands into his pockets and glaring. "We're going to get coffee and you're going to explain whatever shit you've gotten yourself into." Phil frowns.

"It's not any of your business," he replies.

"Yeah, it kind of is, seeing as I've been tailed for the past few days, too, probably because of associating with you." He looks angry, so Phil sighs and relents.

"Fine." He says, and Barton heads off in one direction. "Why coffee, though?"

Barton smirks at him. "Do you eat anything else?"

*

The café Clint chooses is close-by and family owned. They have proper sizing-- small, medium, and large-- so Coulson can't use the place for one of his stupid little metaphors. It isn't particularly full this time of day, so they pick a table out of sight of the window and sit with their backs to it to give the lip-readers a break.

"Start at the beginning," Clint prompts when Coulson just sits there, stirring nothing into his plain black coffee.

"I can't," he says quietly into his drink. "I can't involve you."

"You already have. Tell me what you can." He figures Coulson is going to lie to him anyways. It's his job.

"They suspect me of being a double agent. That much is obvious," he responds without moving his lips.

"Yeah, got that. Who's the other party, though?" Coulson's mouth becomes a thin line and Clint leans back on his chair. "Okay. So what else can you tell me?"

"Nothing," Coulson says simply.

"Let's play twenty questions," he says suddenly. "Where did you grow up?"

"Salem, Oregon," Coulson answers. "Did you like the carnival?"

Clint considers for a moment. "I guess so," he answers. "How did you get into SHIELD?"

"They recruited me from the Marines. Why did you like it?"

"I don’t know," Clint shrugs. “It wasn’t the best life. We traveled a lot and we never had any money, but it was better than the orphanage. That’s where I learned to shoot. I’m glad I learned. Don’t know if I liked learning, always.” He looks down at his coffee. "What's your clearance level?"

"Level five. Why did you leave?"

"Um, it got complicated. I had some…disagreements with the guy who taught me how to shoot. After my – after that, I couldn’t stay. I went off to make my own way.” He hesitates for a moment and wonders how much Coulson knows about that. “What's my clearance level?"

"Level two," Coulson blinks a few times. "Do you honestly not know that?"

"Nope," Clint replies cheerfully. "When exactly did you sleep with Hill?" he asks, because he's dying to know what her deal is.

"We dated for seven months about six years ago," Coulson sighs, sounding very regretful about playing the game (or maybe about Hill, which would make sense). He sounds pretty bitter about _something_ , anyways, because the next question he asks Clint is, "who was the last person you slept with?"

_Shit_. He considers lying for a moment, then quickly answers, "Jim Moriarty. This is getting awkward." Clint takes a long drink of his overly sweet cappuccino to avoid Coulson's eyes, which aren't pointed towards him, anyways.

"You're telling me."

"So, why did you join the Marines anyways?"

"I told you that a long time ago. I actually wanted to help people. Serve my country." Clint does remember being skeptical of it. "Why did you decide to join Moriarty?" Clint looks down at his nails and resists the urge to bite at them.

"There aren't a lot of jobs for someone with my skill set when they don't even have a high school diploma. I'm not stupid, but I never could have joined the military. Not after… I took one job for the money, and it escalated,” he shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant about it. “A few years back, Jim contacted me, offered me a few jobs. I wouldn't say I 'joined' him. It wasn’t, like, a secret club or anything.” Coulson nods. “Do you like working for SHIELD?"

"Yes, obviously. Did you like working for Moriarty?'

Clint shrugs. "I never quit. And I know that's not an answer, but it was never a matter of liking it," he stops and drains his coffee. "During? I had a hell of a time," he says flatly. "But I'm not nostalgic for it. He never let me use my bow. He'd watch me practice, call me Cupid, but…" A shiver runs up Clint's spine. "Uhhh, what's the worst part of your job?"

"This," Coulson answers without hesitation. "I know it should be losing agents, or failing, or maybe even the paperwork. I don't mind the paperwork. But, sitting around doing nothing, being distrusted and suspected and trailed. I'm not doing anything. I'm so useless like this, and it's frustrating." Clint knows Coulson could be lying and acting, trying to gain his pity, but he isn't sure that he is. "What's the best part of yours?" Clint hesitates. He thinks of Coulson's answer, and considers his response carefully.

"Right after I nock the arrow," he answers very quietly, "when I pull back on the bowstring and feel the tension build, it's like something…it's like the stress just seeps into the arrow. And then I loose the arrow and watch it fly, let everything flow out. There's this perfect moment before it hits the target. That's the best part." Coulson turns to look at him for the first time in their little game, and gives a very tiny nod, like he's been witness to something very private and sacred and is agreeing to keep it a secret. Clint freezes up a little, unsure of how to react.

When Clint doesn't say anything else, Coulson gets up and throws away their empty coffee cups and returns his plate responsibly.

"Your turn. We both have twelve left."

"What do you want to do now?" he asks with a smirk.

"I don't know. What do you want to do?" Coulson counters with a smug look.

"God, you're just so fair," Clint laughs. "My place is just around the corner and it isn't bugged if you want to catch up on America's Next Top Model with me."

"You have terrible taste in television," Coulson says, shaking his head with the tiniest of smiles. But he follows Clint home.

*

"Shoes off at the door," Barton says as they enter his apartment. It opens right into the kitchen. He bolts the door behind them as Phil steps out of his shoes and takes a quick, calculating look around (weapons: none obvious; escape: bolted door, one window visible in the next room). "The window's locked, but there's a trustworthy fire escape right outside," Barton says helpfully as he pulls off his sneakers.

"How long have you been living here?" Phil asks, using up his tenth question. There's a bare minimum of furniture and absolutely no decoration. At least he has a few framed posters. This place doesn't look lived in, to his surprise. He'd pegged Barton as a slob.

"A fortnight," Barton says, throwing his bag down onto a table. "Where do you live?"

"'Fortnight,' huh? It shows that you've been living in Britain." Phil notes the precaution Barton takes as he looks around, checking for, well, anything, really. Phil puts his hands into his pockets and checks his person for bugs as he tells Barton his address. He's clean.

"We're practically neighbors," Barton laughs, heading into the living room and turning on the television. "I was serious about Top Model, though. There's a marathon, and I missed a ton while I was overseas."

"If you had been joking, I would have gone home to my bugged apartment and American Idol Rewind." Phil gingerly sits on the other end of the couch and glances around again (weapons: lamp, two couch pillows; escape: window with fire escape, two other rooms (bathroom and bedroom) with possible windows). He doesn't see any bugs, but they could have been more thorough with Barton. "What other TV do you watch?"

"Uh, Top Gear, Supernanny, X Factor. I don't know. Whatever was on," Barton shrugs, thinking. "Their seasons are tiny, it's -- shit, I missed the Doctor Who finale."

"That series premieres on SciFi Channel soon," he offers. "They just finished showing the last one a bit over a month ago."

"Ew. How do you survive?"

"I'm very careful," Phil answers, "nine left." Barton swears, but he's smiling.

They lapse into a comfortable silence for awhile, just watching the marathon and making random comments about it. Phil allows himself to feel almost relaxed before he's reminded that he's watching reality television with a co-worker, and that this is getting dangerously close to friend territory. Barton seems to notice this too, because he glances at Phil more in five minutes than he has the entire night. And, shit, it's _night_ already if the darkness behind the blinds means anything, and he should be getting home to make dinner.

He stands up. "I think--"

"Let's get takeout or something," Barton says quickly, opening a drawer and rifling through it. Phil tenses, but he just pulls out a wrinkled takeout menu. "And then we can make friendship bracelets and braid each other's hair," he says in a deadpan, passing the menu over. Phil takes it and glances down; it's the place he usually orders from. Living this close to Barton is _weird_.

"Thanks, but--"

"Jesus, Coulson, calm down, I'm not extending the hand of friendship or anything," Barton continues, pausing the show and fiddling with the remote as he speaks. "Think of all the higher ups we're ticking off by not hanging out in your over-bugged apartment where they can watch you sleep." He doesn't know what to say to this; it's not that he would hate to consider Barton a friend, but it complicates things to have any sort of non-work relationship with his agent.

"I thought I had overstayed my welcome. There's this thing called politeness, Barton," he shoots back. "You should try it sometime."

"Cute."

Barton finally looks up and smirks at him before calls in their order. He simultaneously flips through channels as he repeats his order, each time with more volume and frustration. Phil excuses himself to the bathroom, glancing subtly into the bedroom to check for a window (there's a bookshelf half-filled with secondhand books, an unmade bed, and a very lethal looking lamp). The bathroom doesn't have a window, but there's some deadly shampoo and conditioner out in the open.

He hears Barton mutter "wow, I am so screwed," as he closes the bathroom door.

*

"Why is everything in your house in drawers?" Coulson asks as he comes back into the living room. Clint has sprawled awkwardly over the entire couch and put a lot of effort into loosing himself in Antiques Roadshow.

"Oh, uh," he says, moving his feet aside so Coulson can sit down. "Look around and catalogue everything you can use as a weapon." Clint gestures around the largely empty living room and then looks pointedly to Coulson. He's been looking around nervously this entire time, glancing from exit to exit and resembling a hunted rabbit.

"Smart," Coulson nods his approval. A moment later, the doorbell rings. "That was quick." Clint goes to answer it, looking through the peephole. He doesn't recognize this delivery person from his two weeks of ordering, but maybe he's just never met him before. Maybe. He holds a twenty dollar bill in one hand and reaches for his sidearm with the other, and opens the door just enough to retrieve the takeout. He hands the man the twenty.

"Keep the change," he says with a forced smile, taking the bag one-handed. The man turns to leave with a muttered thanks and Clint shuts and bolts the door quickly before looking through the bag for anything suspicious. He spots the bug right away. It's a camera and microphone, by the looks of it.

He pretends like the bugs aren’t there as he takes the food into the living room. Coulson is standing braced against the wall with his sidearm (he’s wearing jeans and perfectly white socks and clutching a gun, and Clint bites back an inexplicable, inappropriate urge to laugh at the sight). Clint shakes his head a fraction and points the camera away from him.

"Food's here," he says cheerfully, and sets it on the coffee table so Coulson can see the bugs.

"Great," Coulson says, gun gone, perched on the couch like he'd never left as soon as Clint pulls out the takeout carton. He looks so falsely happy, so stressed out and _disappointed_ that Clint freezes in handing him his plastic fork and feels something cold harden in his chest.

"Actually, it's not," he says darkly, plucking the bug from the bag and glaring into the tiny camera lens, "because work won't leave their best fucking agent alone on his night off." Clint sets the camera on the floor and, on an impulse, raises his boot.

"Barton, don't--"

He crushes it underneath his heel.

"That's not going to stop their suspicions," Coulson says, his suddenly relaxed posture at odds with the glare on his face.

"I don't fucking care," Clint calls as he heads into his bedroom, searching for a pen and paper. He finds a pack of unopened Sharpies and tears it apart, scrawling "DO NOT DISTURB" on a piece of notebook paper in purple marker. He rushes back through the living room and sticks it to the window with duct tape. He tramples across the room; shoving the takeout back into the bag and stomping into the kitchen to slam open the door and practically throw the bag into the hallway.

Clint locks the door. He stops with his hand braced against the wood to take a long, deep breath. _Guess I'll have to make dinner myself_ , he thinks, and starts looking through cabinets for inspiration. He doesn’t have much.

Coulson joins him in the kitchen and leans against the counter.

"Now," he says, turning on Coulson as he tosses the ingredients onto the counter, "you're going to tell me what the hell is going on, so when I come home tomorrow night I know why there are bugs all over my fucking flat -- apartment -- whatever. And I am going to make pancakes."

"I can't," Coulson starts, and then he sighs, rubbing at his temple. "You have nine questions left." There's no time to waste, so Clint gets right to it.

"You said earlier that they think you're a double agent. Who at SHIELD suspects you?" he spits as he measures out the milk.

"Fury. Hill. Practically everyone, now. Any siblings?" Coulson watches as he cracks the eggs expertly and tosses the shells into the trash can across the room.

"One, a brother. Is that not on file?"

"We have no record of him," Coulson says. "But I suspected. You were too young to run away on your own and no one else was missing from the orphanage."

"I thought he would be, since –“ he stops himself, because Coulson will have to ask for more before he gives it. “I don't really want to talk about…" Clint trails off as he sticks the butter into the microwave.

"You can't change the rules halfway through," Coulson says, and maybe he deserves that, because he's been kind of a dick about, well, everything.

"Fine. You got any family?" Clint spits, knowing this is definitely off limits. Coulson is a SHIELD agent, and talking about his family puts them at risk. He takes a deep breath. If he doesn’t calm down, he’ll whisk their pancakes to death.

"My parents have been gone for awhile, but we were never very close. I had a sister, though. Where did you learn to cook?"

"Jim, kind of. He never ate much and wouldn't risk ordering in too often," Clint explains, setting the whisk down. "I tried to remember the old fortune teller’s recipe. She was a killer cook. What was your sister like?"

"She was…her name was Diana," Coulson shrugs.

"Go on," Clint nods.

"She was, well... She was younger than me, but she pushed me around a lot when we were kids. She was pretty wild." Clint makes a humming noise somewhere between sympathy and empathy. "I joined SHIELD, and she got into trouble. She was a mutant. She used her…abilities for profit." Coulson hesitates for a moment and Clint feels his eyes burning into his neck. "Do you miss him?" Coulson asks suddenly.

Clint focuses on leveling out the flour in the measuring cup. "What's the deal with mutants, anyways?"

"You didn't answer my question," Coulson says firmly.

"I know I didn't," Clint says as he pours the flour into a bowl, staring into the little white cloud it startles into the air and remembering the shitty little hidey-hole flat where he'd scribbled down the recipe from memory.

"He hated my pancakes, you know," he says, because he doesn't know how to answer the question. "Said they were rubbish American pancakes. He ate them anyways. That last night...he got a message on his mobile -- uh, cell phone -- and he said he was hungry. Asked if I'd make him pancakes. That was the last -- that's when he made up his mind, and he asked for my _damn_ pancakes." His hand does not shake at all as he measures teaspoon after teaspoon of baking powder, and he is proud of that small semblance of composure.

"Barton--"

 "He killed people," Clint spits, "for _fun_. How could I miss someone like that? That's not a question," he adds hastily, "that's rhetorical."

"Diana joined a group of mutants that were vying for power," Coulson responds in a soft voice, like he's comforting Clint. "She killed people to get there, and she killed people who got in her way. And I miss her. What she did didn't define her." Clint wants to shout at him, because Jim is nothing like Coulson's stupid mutant sister. He had _wanted_ his job and his insanity to define him.

"You didn't answer my question, you know," he says. "Mutants. Explain."

"I'm going to assume you've been living under a rock for a few years."

"Not a rock. I went underground for awhile. Stayed away from newspapers." He had stayed away from newspapers for an entirely different reason, but he doesn’t want to get back onto that topic.

"You know the basics, though," Coulson shrugs, "people born with genetic traits that give them…abilities. Diana had super-human strength, agility, and reflexes. She was--"

"Like Buffy, then."

"Sure," Coulson smiles a little, but it doesn't last. "There was a series of, let's say, terrorist attacks by a group of purist mutants. Public opinion went down, government pressure went up. The politics of it--"

"How was your sister involved in that, then?"

Coulson begins to look more uncomfortable, but he'd expected that, really. "When Moriarty died, he left a power vacuum." Clint blinks a few times as he slits open a bag of brown sugar with a knife. Coulson eyes the knife cautiously, like he expects Clint to turn on him any moment now. "Everyone expected it to be filled by some kind of protégée. That’s the usual scenario," he continues, voice leveled with delicacy. "When no one appeared to take his place, the people she worked for tried to fill that vacuum.” Clint tries not to think of where he’d be if he had taken up the mantle.

“What do you think about mutant politics?" Coulson asks, trying to sound nonchalant, but Clint can tell he's carefully gauging his reaction. _Why does he care?_ Clint thinks.

"I'm all for equality," he shrugs, packing down the brown sugar, "I don't see why it's even an issue. But terrorism? Not going to help that at all."  Coulson takes his pause as an opportunity to shake a crumb of the packed brown sugar from the bag into his palm and pop it into his mouth like it's candy. Clint stares at him for a moment and starts laughing.

"So, that's what SHIELD's problem with you is," he says suddenly, expression hardening again. "What brought about the sudden spike of suspicion?" He starts to pour the wet mixture into the dry, and Coulson takes the bowl from his hands and pours slowly as he stirs it together.

"The mugging. They don't think I'd let myself be ganged up on like that." Clint doesn't ask if there really was a mugging or not. He isn't sure if he'll get an honest answer or not. "Do you believe it?"

"Yes," Clint lies.

"We are men of action, lies do not become us," Coulson warns him with a Princess Bride quote. Clint ignores him for a few short minutes as he retrieves a pan and turns on the stove.

"I think," he starts carefully, "I barely know you. But, I'd say I'm an okay judge of character, and you'd have to have a good reason to betray SHIELD like that. And I know how unreasonable they can be at times." Clint splashes a few drops of water from the tap onto the pan and watches them sizzle, thinking about a question. He pours a few pancakes onto the griddle.

"So," Clint starts quickly when he gets an idea, "gay, straight, or mutant?"

"Nice try," Coulson says, snorting, "someone's been watching Legally Blonde."

"It was worth a shot. You still have to answer," Clint says, trying not to smile. He does anyways.

"None of the above," Coulson says hesitantly. Clint doesn't know if he quite believes him. He's a trained liar, but they both are. "Gay, straight, or mutant?"

"I like to define myself as a badass," Clint shrugs, poking absently at the underside of the pancakes with a spatula.

He flips a pancake into the air so it flips over four times and lands perfectly on the pan between the other pancakes. Usually, that move earns him applause. Coulson doesn't seem impressed.

"So, to summarize," he continues as he flips the other pancakes, "SHIELD thinks you're working as a double agent to assist a band of mutants because you're a sympathizer or, or something," he hesitates pointedly, "due to your connections with your mutant sister and being uncharacteristically overpowered by muggers."

"What’s your clearance level, again?" Coulson says. He’ll take that as a yes.

"You could've just said," Clint grumbles.

"I couldn't. And I shouldn't, anyways. Why did you come into the comic book store today?"

Clint is a bit surprised by that question. He thinks for a moment, and says, "I was scoping out the neighborhood and saw you in the window, obviously sweating up a storm over something. Then I saw that you had a SHIELD tail, and it ticked me off. They should be more loyal to their agents. You stuck up for me when I screwed up," he shrugs, and then shuts his mouth before he gives away a hint that he has developed any strange fondness…or pity, or whatever. He doesn't tell Coulson that he hadn't planned on going in at all until he'd seen his face. There was something in his eyes.

Definitely pity.

He flips the finished pancakes onto a plate and pours out some more of the batter. The pan sizzles a little.

"What else?" he says, "what else do they possibly think that could contribute to your sudden change of heart?"

"The missions I come into contact with have had a higher probability of failure."

"But, Holloway--"

"Paperwork went missing during a time when I was one of the few people with access to it. A few mutants we captured -- remember the girl with super-speed? -- refused to be interviewed by anyone but me."

"That's--" Clint flips the pancakes. "Those are shoddy reasons, even I--"

"Diana was murdered in a SHIELD raid," Coulson says finally. "I was in charge of taking down Moriarty's network, until someone from the British government told us to back off. When the mutants stepped in to take over after his death, we stepped back in. I was in charge of an attack on a compound, and I didn't know she was there until we were inside. I ordered -- I ordered for them to take her alive, and twelve agents died. It was a conflict of interest, and I didn't say anything until after she was murdered." Coulson doesn't even sound guilty or stubborn about it, just resigned. "A month later, information started disappearing, my missions began to fall through, and the mutants began to slip through our fingers."

It's obvious, now, that SHIELD thinks Coulson is a mutant or a sympathizer trying to sabotage them. The problem is that it is obvious _because_ it's the only logical explanation. Unless – and a very big unless -- he's being framed.

Clint smells the pancakes begin to burn.

"Is SHIELD right?"

"You're out of questions," Coulson says, taking the spatula from him gently. He flips them onto a plate, turns off the stove, and begins to browse through the scanty contents of Clint's cupboards. "What do you like on your pancakes?" he asks. His final question. He stands there in Clint's kitchen, in a button-down, jeans, and his socks, clutching a plate of pancakes and a spatula. He is Clint's employer, his handler, and his dinner guest, but not his friend.

He is not reassured.


	6. Chapter 6

No one acknowledges the events of the weekend when Phil goes back to work on Monday morning. He's not relieved. Somewhere, he knows Fury is trying very hard not to call Barton into his office and yell at him for a very, very long time. But he is Clint Barton's _handler_ now -- not his friend, not just his colleague, not even an acquaintance -- his handler. Barton is his _responsibility_. He inwardly curses himself for getting into this mess, because now, anything that happens to Barton is utterly his fault.

No, they don’t talk about the incident in the comic book store, or the coffee shop, or even the fact that he hadn’t left Barton’s apartment until it was nearly midnight (he’d lost track of time, eating pancakes and watching reruns, until Barton had repressed a yawn and Phil had blanched at the time). No one says a word to him. Not even Barton, when they pass in the halls. He looks tired, strangely, but Phil doesn’t let his gaze linger. Barton follows suit. It’s probably for the best, after all.

No, when someone finally plucks up the courage – or the sass – to speak to him, they talk about work. It’s always about work, although he doesn’t have much anymore. Phil doesn't even go to his office at first. He just heads to the cafeteria to pick up some coffee and eavesdrop on the interns' latest gossip. They've become frightfully intuitive, but this is SHIELD, after all. Of all of the acquaintances and foes he’s made at SHIELD, it’s Jasper Sitwell who corners him in the cafeteria, next to the ever pumping coffee makers that are the true heart of SHIELD.

"Been pretty busy lately, huh?" Sitwell says sardonically as he fills his cup. Phil still hasn't decided whether or not he likes the man yet, but he feels he'll be making a decision soon.

"Swamped," he replies, filling his thermos.

"I heard you took up an agent,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

"You may have heard a lot of things. This batch of interns is particularly bloodthirsty. I'd hate to be HYDRA when they get promoted."

"Oh, they'll be great on the field," Sitwell shrugs, stirring creamer into his coffee. "Not as good as your specialist. He's good. Bit weird, though." As much as Phil agrees, he still feels strangely defensive.

"I heard he was injured during your mission," he says conversationally, not making it sound like an accusation.

"A few bruised ribs," Sitwell shrugs. Phil resists the urge to snap at him and takes a sip of his coffee instead. "What are you going to do with a specialist, though?" He hears the ' _since you aren't getting any missions and I'll probably be promoted above you and snap Barton up as my own_.' It's rather a lot to hear implied, but it's there, nonetheless. Sitwell is a good man and a good agent, but he lacks subtlety.

"What does one normally do with specialists?" Phil replies. He really doesn't know why he's allowed the conversation to go on for so long. Sitwell seems to be fishing for something, and he's done putting up with him.

"It depends," Sitwell replies coldly. "On whether or not you get the chance to use them." He walks away, just as Phil decides that he really dislikes Sitwell after all.

*

"They totally fucked," Clint whispers in Mary's ear, making her jump back. He grins as she spins around to glare at him. She's bleached and dyed the tips of her black hair red over the weekend. It’s a good look, he thinks vaguely.

"Goddamn it, Clint, stop doing that," she says, throwing her pen onto her desk. "Clarke has been on my ass all day.” She looks around, but her supervisor is nowhere in sight.

“Why?” Clint asks politely, because he’s holding a folder of paperwork behind his back. There’s no way she’ll fill it out if she’s in a bad mood.

“Well,” Mary looks sheepish. “She’s been asking me what we talk about." Clint stops smiling.

"Seriously?" he asks, stepping back and looking around self-consciously. Sure enough, there are a few curious faces poking around cubicles. "Sorry," he mutters, thinking back to how associating with Coulson had put him under suspicion in the first place. The last thing any intern needs is to be fired before she's even been hired, just for talking to him. No matter where he turns, he's doing _something_ wrong.

"Really, though? Hill and Coulson?" she whispers conspiratorially. "I knew it."

"Yeah, yeah, you'll make a great super-spy some day," he says mockingly, although it's disturbingly true. "Your turn."

"Well, Christine and I went out for dinner, and this weekend we're going to go see a movie, although the little place that shows old films is having a Star Wars marathon or something, so I thought instead--"

"That's not what I --" Clint starts, before stopping. "Star Wars marathon or something," he repeats slowly. He’s getting an idea. It’s probably a terrible idea, but, frankly, most of his ideas are.

"Yeah, so I figured it would be great, but no. She says she loves old films or whatever, so I was thinking, that old place is always showing--"

"Star Wars marathon this weekend," he says.

"Yes," Mary blinks. She writes down the name of the theater on a post-it note and sticks it on his forehead. "Coulson, right? You go, tiger! And I'll have your paperwork submitted before I leave today," she says smartly.

"That's what I like to hear!" Clint says, dropping a folder down on her desk. "Keep me updated."

"Same to you," she laughs as he backs out of her cubicle with a wink, "tell me how your date goes."

"Hold up," he says, backtracking and sticking his head back around the divider to stare at her blankly, "It's not a date." He’s really got to stop encouraging the interns, he thinks with a sinking dread.

Mary just smiles.

*

Saturday arrives all too slowly. Phil comes to work perfectly on time, heads down to Research & Development to turn in the last of the paperwork on Barton's new arrows (honestly, being Barton’s handler is the only work he gets anymore), and spends a half hour making small talk about whatever it is they're developing now. He ignores the gutted Stark Industries weaponry they hastily try to cover the moment he walks into the room, because no one really expects any different of them.

He heads to the cafeteria for his compulsory cup of coffee and gets intercepted by Agent Clarke, who tells him to report to Hill. Hill's secretary tells him she's in R&D, and the staff in R&D asks him why he's back when Hill left for the gym thirty minutes ago. From the gym he's sent to the cafeteria, ambushed by forced small talk, and then told that Fury has been looking for him. He feels like he's been on a wild goose chase by the time he makes it to Fury's office, and he's so angered by the lack of competency that he almost forgets to knock.

"Door's open," Fury calls, and Phil would wonder why he could hear him through the soundproofing, but the door is already cracked open.

"Coulson. What are you doing here?" he says, looking up from -- well, Phil has enough discretion that he'll never admit that he caught his boss playing shoot-'em-up games on his hi-tech computer.

"Agent Woo told me that you wanted to speak with me."

Fury stares at him for a long moment before sighing. "This is Hill's job, and she knows it."

"Sir?"

Fury gets up, closes the door, and returns to the other side of his desk. He doesn't sit down, doesn't offer Phil a seat, just crosses his arms, stands there, and stares at him with his one eye. Phil wonders if he’s being menacing on purpose or just by force of habit.

"You're on probation," he says simply. It’s almost kind.

"I know," Phil replies. "You might as well be giving me a paid vacation. I've had little to no work in the past two weeks." This is why he never, ever goes on vacation.

"We'll handle that as soon as we can, Coulson," Fury says sharply, sitting back down. "Dismissed."

Fury has been the most fair out of everyone, Phil thinks as he shuts the door behind him. Sitwell and Hill have changed, treated him coolly. Clarke has stopped looking up to him. No one trusts him anymore, and no one has given him a chance to speak for himself. Except for Barton, maybe, although he only got there through an infuriating and obnoxious pushiness that seems to be his favorite hobby. He shouldn’t know about any of it in the first place. _This is my fault,_ Phil thinks sullenly. _Is it even worth it?_

Phil sighs as he hesitates outside of Fury's office. He's spent the entire morning looking for Hill or talking with agents, so he gives up work (ha-work) for a lost cause. He heads to lunch and spends far too long waiting for the coffee island to clear of agents before he heads over to fill his empty thermos.

"Good afternoon," an intern says brightly as she steps up to the counter. He really, really doesn’t want to deal with her today. He tries to remember her name. She's young, slightly familiar. The tips of her hair are a vivid red.

"Good afternoon," he answers as he waits for one of the machines to start cranking out coffee again. He hates the post-lunch rush. "You're one of Barton's, aren't you?" he asks after a moment.

"Mary Hannigan," she says. "Barton's one of yours, isn't he?" She proceeds to fill her "I Heart Buffy" coffee mug ( _definitely_ one of Barton's) with _decaf_ , proving that she's an insane intern. In fact, anyone who voluntarily works for SHIELD without pay is insane.

"Apparently." Finally, _finally_ , the coffee is perked and perfect and he waits for his thermos to fill. Hannigan starts stirring sugar and cream into her coffee and humming some obnoxious pop song. Just as his thermos fills and he turns to leave, she speaks up again.

"Good luck with him," she says, as if it's supposed to mean something.

"Good luck with the internship," he says, and leaves quickly. He's beginning to miss the relative peace, quiet, and utter boredom of his office. He hasn't been there all day, due to his wild goose chase.

Phil tries not to make eye contact with anyone as he heads through the hallways to his office. He walks past Maria and expects an icy stare in response to his usual polite smile. She makes eye contact with him, unblinking, and moves her head slightly from the left to the right. He doesn't stop, doesn't turn around or ask her what's wrong. She's warning him about something. The moment he opens his office door he understands.

Someone else has been in his office.

He does not allow janitors in his office. Very few agents with his clearance level and above do. It's easy to take care of trash, dust a little, and sweep the floor. Janitorial staff is too easily bribed. SHIELD takes obvious precautions, so his office is locked by fingerprint and retinal scans. But someone else has been inside.

Phil looks around cautiously (weapons: paperweight, pens, pencils, erasers, keyboard, computer screen, nameplate, chair, desk, potted plant, couch cushions; escapes: door, air vent), looking for anything disturbed or out of place. Nothing. He even glances under the desk without making it obvious, because there's a camera right behind his desk. Nothing.

Then, he spots it. A little figurine, Legolas, in an active stance with his bow pointed towards an invisible target. There's a red bow on his head and a piece of paper speared on his tiny arrow. He carefully pulls off the message and reads the slanted block print.

**_HAPPY 1 WEEK HANDLERVERSERY.  
ORIGINAL TRILOGY MARATHON TONITE.  
HAVE TO CLOCK OFF EARLY TO MAKE IT.  
Y/N?_ **

He doesn't smile or chuckle, just in case Barton is still in the air vents, watching him. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't.

He just sits down at his desk and looks at the little figurine (it's a shame Barton opened the packaging, it was a _collector's item_ ) for a few minutes, thinking. Someone knocks on his door and he sets it down, next to the Captain America paperweight Maria had given him a few years ago for Christmas.

"Hey," Barton says when he opens the door, and takes his silence as an invitation to come in. He isn't wearing his uniform, but a t-shirt, jeans, and the leather jacket from last weekend. He even has a backpack in hand, probably with extra clothes. "I don't know if you got the--"

"How did you get in?" Phil asks, pretending like he hasn't been in his office for all of two minutes. Like he's already made up his mind.

"Air vents," Barton shrugs. "You know they aren't even monitored? That's a serious hole in security." Phil frowns. "Look, I'm just heading out early," Barton says. "I. Didn't know. If you wanted to tag along. Or not." He shrugs again. Phil hesitates.

"I'm not supposed to leave early," he says.

"Oh. Okay. That's, fine, yeah, understandable, I should have given you more notice, anyways." Barton plays with the straps of his backpack.

"I doubt they'll need me, though," Phil replies, against his better judgment. He quickly runs through the very short to-do list for the weekend. "I should get a few things for the weekend, though, just give me a few minutes." He stops after opening the drawer. Barton sets his backpack down on Phil's desk with that smug smirk and sits back in a chair, tilting it back on two legs.

Phil stops and stares at the drawer.

Because someone has placed files in there. Files that he knows he has never seen before. Files that he was planning on stealing next, but with huge "CLASSIFIED - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - 7" stamps on them that were not there before. His mouth goes dry, but he doesn't let it show on his face. They've been planted. Which means that they're coming for him already.

Suddenly, Maria's warning, the wild goose chase, the set of Fury's mouth…it all makes sense. If they can't blow holes in his cover, they'll frame him, and to hell with justice. Maria, for whatever reason, the unfairness of it or some niggling remainder of confidence and trust, had warned him. _That was nice of her_ , Phil thinks numbly.

"Go ahead, take your time," Barton says, and he doesn't even have the heart to reply sarcastically. He blocks the security camera's view with his body and slips the two manila folders out of the drawer. He glances up, at Barton, at his desk drawer, and makes a choice.

*

"Okay," Coulson says, zipping a few manila folders into a briefcase. Clint definitely does not envy his job. "Let's go."

"Awesome!" Clint says, tipping the chair back onto all four feet with a small crash. He swings his backpack over his shoulder and follows Coulson out the door. "Do you think people will show up in costume or something?" he says, chattering wildly about the first thing he can think of.

"Depends on the venue," Coulson says, considering.

"Oh. I’ve never really been into this sort of thing,” he shrugs. He wonders how to ask Coulson if he is. He wonders why he’s even curious.

"I can drive, if you want," Coulson says, pulling out his keys and sparing Clint the awkwardness of asking for a ride. He's been using public transportation, which is more convenient but also slightly unnerving when he's still not certain who is out to kill him.

"Really? Thanks. Guess I'll have to get the popcorn or whatever. Christ, last time I went to the cinema – movies, whatever – I had ice cream. Ice cream, of all things. England. Weird,” Clint continues, wondering why they hell his mouth has suddenly disconnected from his brain.

"Really?" Coulson says, sounding distracted. Clint quiets a little.

They arrive at the security checkpoint on their way out, and Coulson puts his bag, car keys, mobile -- no, cell phone -- and sidearm into the plastic tub, walks through the scanner, and emerges on the other side. Clint does the same with his backpack and walks through.

"Hey, George," he says as the guard zips Coulson's bag closed and hands it back.

"Clint," the guard says with a nod. "Why are you leaving so soon?"

"Star Wars marathon," he replies unabashedly.

"So that's why you're hanging out with the resident geek," George says, shuffling through Clint's backpack. Clint glances at Coulson, but his mouth is set in a firm line. He's heard these jokes before. So what if the guy likes Captain America? "Hey, wait," George mutters as he checks something on his screen, and Clint _really_ hopes he (well, Mary) filed the right forms to allow him to sign out that collapsible bow and quiver of arrows.

"Huh?" he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. George takes one look from his screen to the manila files he's pulled out of Clint's backpack -- files that he's never seen before, that he distinctly _does not remember_ putting there -- and presses a lockdown button.

"Barton--" Coulson starts, as though he’s going to reprimand him or something, but he gets cut off by the blaring alarms cutting through the hallway.

"What the fuck?" he says, stepping towards the security guard. "Those aren't even mine," he says angrily. Of course, that's when a fucking _army_ of agents appears from almost thin air, with guns all cocked and pointed in this direction, all dapper in their SHIELD issue uniforms.

"Clinton Barton, you are under arrest," he hears the steely tones of Maria Hill from behind him, and turns to see her pointing a gun right at his head. He's been in worse situations, probably, but if it weren't for the fact that _Phil Coulson_ is staring at _him_ like a kicked puppy, he wouldn't be that worried.

"Fuck this," he spits, moving to duck and knock her feet out from under her, but something hits him in the side of the neck and he can't move anymore. A tranquilizer.

"Gotcha," he hears Hill mutter as the world begins to fade.

Coulson mouths "sorry" at him before his vision goes black.

*

Phil stops at a crosswalk and pulls out his cell phone to make a call.

"I've got them," he says.


	7. Chapter 7

Clint wakes up slowly at first, and then jolts through the haze of drugged sleep once he realizes he doesn't know where he is. It takes a moment, but his memories come back to him all too clearly, too clearly for it all to have been a dream.

 The files. The backpack. The tranquilizer. And Coulson, mouthing 'sorry' at him as he slipped into unconsciousness. It wasn't hard to work it out. He'd been framed to save Coulson's ass.

He looks around the dimly lit cell. There's a cot, a toilet, and a sink, but not much else. No weapons. No escape. It is disturbingly like the room he'd been given when he first joined SHIELD, except smaller and with a fancy door lock. He wonders if he's still at HQ, or if he's been transported to some kind of prison. He touches the wall and feels it vibrating, humming like there's some kind of powerful generator nearby. He must be in a prison somewhere.

Clint takes stock of himself. His mouth is dry, filled with a bitter taste from being drugged. There's no way to tell, but he figures he's been out for a day, if he can judge by his ravenous hunger. He still can't be sure; tranquilizers, sedatives, and whatever else SHIELD had pumped into him would screw up his system. He goes over to the sink and sticks his head under the tap to clear it and get a drink. It helps a little, and he thinks back to the backpack.

He had just thrown it on the desk to be annoying, to seem nonchalant and careless about the whole thing, but, obviously, it had been Coulson's opportunity to stick the files in.

"Fuck you, Coulson," he says, kicking the wall. It bruises his toe through his shoe, and he swears again.

When Clint collapses on the cot, he's certainly not shaking. He looks down at his hands. They’re caught in a tremor, so he clasps them together and looks away. He is tired and drained from the drugs, from sleeping too long, from the lack of food. It's just from adrenaline. That's all.

He takes a few deep breaths, tilts his head back, and starts to whistle. It regulates his breathing and helps him to focus. To stop thinking. It works for awhile, until someone interrupts him.

"I didn't take you for a Bee Gees fan," Fury says, stepping into the room. Clint startles and tenses up. Usually he'd never let himself be surprised.

"What drugs did you give me?" he asks conversationally.

"Sedatives," Fury shrugs. "Hungry?" Clint nods guardedly, and Fury hands him a tray of SHIELD's usual rations. "Eat and listen," Fury says, "We don't have much time."

Clint hesitates, thinking, and then nods once.  He's fine with the pretense that he's going to be involved in something as long as it gets him food and the possibility of freedom.

"For the past thirteen months, Coulson has been working as a double agent for an organization led by mutants trying to gain power. Believable?" Fury asks. Clint blinks a few times.

"More believable than _me_ being a double agent," he mutters through a mouthful.

"That's not the point," Fury says, "the point is that Phil Coulson framed you. Do you know why?" Clint fiddles with his fork.

"To preserve his cover?" he suggests blandly, shrugging. "It's obvious. He told me about his sister." Fury's visible eyebrow twitches slightly, the only sign of surprise. "He told me about the organization she joined, and how you took them out. How you suspected him. What do I know, he probably planned that from the start, hoping I'd give away that I knew something I wasn't supposed to by accident."

"You don't believe that."

"No." Clint crosses his arms. "Doesn't make sense to me. He put the files in my backpack to preserve his cover, yeah, but he never planned that. There are a lot better, more solid ways to frame me. I left myself wide open, and he never took advantage of that until he had to. He knew something was coming for him. It was a last minute thing.”

"You're smart," Fury observes, and hands Clint a manila file. He's noticed by now that the most sensitive information is always kept exclusively in print, which makes sense. He stares awkwardly at it without opening it. "Very few agents are aware that we are working on tracking down an organization run exclusively by mutants. They don't even have a name yet," Fury says, looking disappointed. Clint wonders what other organizations they deal with if he's disappointed in the lack of a snappy name. "Since Jim Moriarty died," he nods at Clint, who stiffens and finally opens the file, "they've been sending out agents to -- shall we say -- _persuade_ those in his old network to switch their loyalties. Diana Coulson was one of those agents."

"Her op went wrong, she died, I know," Clint says, skimming through the file. Arms dealers, assassins (some he'd known, most sub-par -- he's insulted that they were a part of Jim's network to begin with), hackers, a terrorist cell in Karachi, the Black Lotus smuggling ring…every string he can remember and more, a web of criminals without a consultant. It’s more than that, though. These are the missions he’s worked on with SHIELD.

“A month after his sister died, Coulson was contacted. They expressed interest in his…abilities." Clint looks up from the file.

"They thought he was a mutant?"

"You've seen him fight," Fury says, "His sister was a mutant. Tell me you find it believable that someone who is so obviously a pencil pusher could fight that well without special abilities."

"It's plausible," he shrugs. Except he’s seen Coulson’s muscles, his fighting skills. He’s definitely trained hard to get where he is.

"Coulson agreed to help them, to get revenge. As soon as they gave him some space, he came straight to me, asked if he should continue to infiltrate them or give it up. I let him continue. He kept me informed, and we carefully controlled what information they got their hands on. We didn't tell anyone else." Clint looks down at his empty plate. "We are very lucky to have him on our side. He never slipped up. But the mutants did, and the genuine double agents they placed in SHIELD did. And then people began to suspect him."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"We couldn't identify all of the mutants' agents. They were just smart enough that Coulson never got a peek at their full hand. But it came at a cost. Coulson knew he'd be working with mutants. That could mean anything. You've seen it for yourself, anything from super-speed to invulnerability." Clint thinks back to his missions. He wishes they would have shared that with him during his briefing. "Including telepathy."

"Like, mind-reading?" Clint asks, eyebrows raised.

"Mind-reading, mind-control. Depends on the mutant. He never operated with more than one that we know of, an amateur who could only sense emotions and influence his actions when in contact. They could tell if he told a flat-out lie."

"So how did he keep his cover?"

"By being very careful," Fury says, "and by half believing his cover story. He wanted revenge for his sister's death, but he wanted revenge on the people who had corrupted her. He wanted to get information, but he wanted that information for SHIELD. As for being a mutant, well, after besting nearly all of our trained assassins in sparring matches, he wasn't even sure where his own strength came from."

"So, is he a mutant?" Clint asks curiously. Fury eyes him coolly; Clint's glad he only has one eye, two would be unbearable.

"Does it matter?" Fury replies. "All I had to do was drop a few hints about DNA testing and my own suspicions," he makes a wide gesture with his hands, "he made the rest of the connections himself."

Clint had figured that Nick Fury would be manipulative, but this is…well, cruel, considering how negative society has been towards mutants. Fury checks his watch and Clint remembers that there's something urgent about this, while Fury seems to be taking his sweet time explaining.

"So, he framed me to keep his cover?"

"Exactly. He ran off with the files and joined the mutants under deep cover. They took him with them, and travelled overseas. He managed to send out a message saying that he was heading towards their base of operations, somewhere in Europe. He activated a tracker in Romania twenty hours ago, and sent out a distress signal twelve hours ago, just before the signal was cut off. I was just able to trace it," Clint splutters, interrupting him.

“How long have I been out?" Clint says angrily.

"Three days. You've been kept in sedation for quite awhile," Fury says, almost smugly. Clint curses himself. He should have guessed better. "Did you really think you'd still be in New York after all that?"

"You want me to rescue him," Clint surmises, "You've taken me closer or you're transporting me because you need my help, out of all the agents you have. What, I don’t even get a choice?” he spits. “He screwed me over. If his cover hadn't been blown--"

"It's not about whether or not you have a choice, Barton, because _you_ are the only choice," Fury sneers, "Coulson trusted you. Do you know how rare his respect and trust is? He fought tooth and nail to give you a chance to be at SHIELD in the first place, and then he had to make you his responsibility because you didn't live up to his promises." Clint blinks a few times. There’s no way to tell how much of this is the truth. Coulson had recruited him, yeah, but he had never had much time for Clint.

"Why would he do that?" he growls, "he could have just killed me in the first place." It would have been so much easier.

"I don't know," Fury shrugs, "but I figure you'll ask him yourself when you get him out of there." Fury stands up abruptly and keys open the door with a code. He hesitates at the door. "Come on, Barton, I have equipment and a jet waiting for you."

Clint stands up tentatively.  His head is finally clear from the drugs, but he's shaky on his feet. That will have to wait. He follows Fury into a plain hallway. It's utterly deserted. "Who's piloting?"

"You are," Fury says as they step into an empty elevator. Clint wonders if Fury had closed off access to this part of the building to maintain secrecy or if there's another reason why it's so deserted.

"Is anyone else going on this mission?” Clint asks, wondering if he's going to regret this. Probably.

"I can’t send anyone from SHIELD, but I'm sending a small team from the outside to help you. They should arrive around the same time as you." He'll have to assume they can be trusted. He doesn't have much choice. He certainly isn't going to answer to them, though.

 "Where are we?" Clint asks as they reach the top of the stairs. Fury smiles smugly as he opens the door, revealing yards upon yards of tarmac and jets stretched out upon nothing, the wind and clouds whipping past as they fly over open ocean.

"Welcome to the SHIELD helicarrier."

*

"Coulson?"

Phil looks up from the stain on the floor to find the source of noise. At the edge of his dingy white excuse for a cell (weapons: none; escape: door) standing in the open doorway, is Maria Hill. His throat crackles as he swallows dryly.

"Coulson," she says urgently, stepping towards him, "we've come to get you out. Come on, we have to go."

_It isn't real._

He looks back down at the dark stain. It's harsh against the painful white of the cell. There are matching stains splattered across the ceiling tiles and the plastic cover of the fluorescent light. They travel over the cover of the air vent, painted over and screwed in with heavy locks. He keeps his eyes on the stain as the door slams open and gunfire shatters his hearing. Hill falls to his feet, dead.

_It isn't real._

He looks at the fresh blood splattered over the old stains and blinks a few times until the phantoms disappear from his vision.

When he looks around the cell again, the blood is gone, Hill is gone, and a woman is sitting across from him on the floor. She swears and snaps her fingers.

"Okay, deeper," she mutters to herself. "Let's try this again, Phil."

*

It doesn't take him long to get used to the controls inside the jet. It's small and compact; the stuff of sci-fi movies, but Fury says it's just a prototype. He's beginning to think that nearly everything at SHIELD is a prototype.

Fury fills him in on the rest during the hour and a half it takes him to zip over the rest of the Atlantic and across part of Europe. He'll have to land somewhere under cover of darkness (Fury had timed it all perfectly, otherwise they would have to wait an entire day), rendezvous with the other team, and head to Coulson's location on foot.

"It's probably some kind of underground bunker," Fury says, voice crackling through the speaker, "but all of our records have been altered and something is hiding it from the scanners. We're trying to get a hold of Stark Industries’ satellites.” He sounds bitter. It must not be going well.

"Great," Clint mutters as he flies over France, knowing that Fury will deal with the proper permissions for him. "Anything else I should know?"

"You're going to have to head one hundred miles north."

"Why?"

"Even I can't get you through Latveria," Fury growls before signing off the comms, and Clint begrudgingly changes his course.

Fifteen minutes pass in relative silence, with only the rush of the wind against the jet exterior and the purr of the engine to keep him company. Clint isn't glad to have time with his own thoughts. _This is a trap,_ he thinks, _you always said SHIELD would screw you over._ He could always stop right here in Hungary, put down the plane and make a run for it. SHIELD would hunt him down, of course. He'd have to create an entirely new identity, maybe even appearance, and invest in another sniper rifle.

On the other hand, if he makes it out of this, he'll still have his job at SHIELD if he wants it. If he doesn't make it out of this, he won't have much to worry about.

He could run, he thinks. He's been running his entire life. From his parents to the orphanage to the carnival to city to city to SHIELD.

He’s tired of running. And he owes Coulson, like it or not.

The computer guidance system he hasn't really been using beeps to tell him how close he is to the mutant base. It's dark, 3:32 AM local time, and he manages to land in an empty field.

"I've arrived," Clint says into the comms as the jet shuts off. He grabs his pack and slings a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. "Fury? Where's the other team you sent?"

A sigh echoes through the speakers. "They took the route through Latveria," Fury says, sounding utterly pissed.

"So, I won't be storming in there, then," Clint says, opening the pack and shuffling through a few things. "It'll be easier that way. I'll be in and out before they even notice he's gone," he says reasonably, but he isn't sure.

There's a pause before Fury answers him, and Clint imagines him arguing with the other team.

"Stand down, Barton, wait for backup. They should be --"

"Sorry, sir," Clint says, slipping on his arm guard and shooting glove. "If I wait for them, we'll have to sit here until it gets dark again. I'm going in on my own."

There is another pause.

"Go ahead, Barton," Fury says resignedly, realizing he's not going to listen. Before he signs off, Clint thinks he hears him mutter, "Crazy son of a bitch."

*

 The floor is hard and sticky underneath his hand; the wall is cool on his back. Phil can feel them, but all he sees is the stretch of the hangar's floor (weapons: _nothing_ , gun, _nothing_ , taser, _nothing_ , _everything_ ; escapes: _none_ , door, _none_ , skylight, _none_ , _death_ ), the bodies dotted here and there. He hears himself running, shoes slapping across the concrete, lungs bursting. There is gunfire; it takes him a moment to realize it's from his own gun. He's in a daze, caught up in an adrenaline rush that does not make his veins hum happily with energy. This is different. This is a living nightmare.

_It isn't real._

He knows where Maria is without even looking -- she's sprawled out across the floor behind where he skids to a stop. He fires his gun twice and stops. A man slumps down beside his cover. He’s dead.

"Maria," he whispers, bending down to check on her. She's just a junior agent and it's _his fault_ , his fault for ruining the operation and getting her into this mess in the first place. "Maria," he says again, expecting her eyelids to flutter (they always flutter in his dreams, he thinks, always in his nightmares, even if just for a moment before he startles awake). They don't.

_It isn't real._

"She's gone, Coulson," Fury says, appearing behind him, and he can still remember that this is wrong. That isn't what happened.

"No," he says, because that's what he had said then, "no, Maria, you can do this, you can--"

"It's okay, Coulson." Fury kneels and places a hand on his shoulder, but there isn't any weight to it.

_It isn't real._

"It's not okay -- it's not -- it isn't real," he gasps, eyes snapping open to the harsh whiteness of his cell (weapons: none; escape: door).

"Damn," the woman snaps.

*

"Of course the evil criminal masterminds would have a fucking castle," Clint mutters to himself in the treetop, "as if we aren't medieval enough with my Robin Hood shit." He's disappointed that his communicator had stopped working after he'd reached the woods immediately surrounding the castle. Fury was right, something in the area blocks out most signals. He really wishes he had someone to talk to, although he won't miss Fury's commands in his ear. The man is okay as a Director, but frankly nerve-racking when snarling direct orders in his ear.

To be fair, it's more of a ruin than a castle. He'd been amazed by the amount of castles in Europe when he'd first come over from America; he had thought they were the stuff of Disney movies. This one is like many of the others he's seen while hopping trains and backpacking across the countryside. It's a dark silhouette on top of a hill, with crumbling stone and giant holes in parts of the walls. Pretty fitting for a rag-tag bunch of amateurs who don't even have a name yet.

Looking through his hi-tech binoculars he can see pretty clearly. There's a road, frequented by heavy trucks by the look of it. He's already watched one truck arrive, go through a checkpoint at the security fence, and drive through a giant hole on the other side of the castle wall. He doesn't have much of the cover of darkness left, so he hopes another truck comes along fast.

He doesn't have to wait long. Clint scales down the tree and sprints through the trees to the edge of the woods. The truck isn't going very fast and has its headlights turned off for supposed stealth, so it's easy to run unseen into its path and lie down in the road. When it passes over him, he latches onto the bottom with two magnetic clamps he had found in his pack and holds on tightly to the handles. _I wonder if you could climb walls with these_ , he thinks as he turns his face away from the heat and stares at the all-too-close ground rushing beneath him. He's glad for his upper arm strength.

The truck stops at the checkpoint and he freezes, hoping his silhouette isn't visible. The guard walks around the truck once and he stares at the black boots, trying to judge the height and weight of the guard so he knows what he's dealing with. There’s some shouting, and he tenses.

The truck moves on.

*

"Remember when we went to Myrtle Beach?" Di asks him, draining the rest of her drink in a heartbeat. Phil blinks a few times at her; this is what, her fifth drink? And she isn't even wavering a little.

"How are you not drunk?" he asks her, reaching over to grab her glass and sniff it to make sure it’s alcohol. The smell should be overpowering, but all he smells is fear and sweat and the dusky, damp smell of being underground.

_It isn't real._

"High metabolism," she shrugs, "remember when I was in high school and you rescued me from that party and--"

"And your friend Charlotte puked in the back of my car," Phil sighs, taking a drink. It doesn't stop him from feeling thirsty.

"That's when it started happening," she says absently.

"Your freshman year?" he asks, confused.

"No, Myrtle Beach," she growls, "Do you remember--?"

He doesn't, he _can't_ , because when he tries to think back, all he can see is a bright light shining down on him and reflecting back at him from bleak white walls, burning into his vision.

_It isn't real._

He takes a sip of his beer and sets it back on the table; watching Di's grip tighten on the table and the wood begin to crack.

"I'm a mutant," she whispers, "the door -- I didn't know my own strength, I didn't know it would fall off the hinges--"

_It isn't--._

"I told mom and dad it was me because I knew," he says quietly, but his whisper is a thin mask on top of a hoarse voice, saying the words with him, "I knew because I – because I’m --"

*

The door isn't very well hidden. It takes him only a minute of watching the guards to find it. The garage is big and cement, hidden inside the ancient stone walls.

It’s not a very modern base. It’s several decades old, he can tell from the cracked concrete and practically ancient tech. The garage has a trapdoor that leads down to a bunker, but it's right out in the open. He'll have a hell of a time trying to get down there that way.

But Clint's eyes are sharp. If there's a bunker, there must be a generator somewhere, and he spots it next. The tech may be old, but it's still functional. There are two generators, side by side. They’re not just for power: fresh air has to be pumped down there, and there's a hatch to the ventilation system right between the two generators.

He waits for an opening and makes his way across the garage stealthily. Thankfully, the guards are thick, and no one notices him. He pulls a strange device from his pack and points it to the vent cover for a few seconds. It turns the screws with magnets or sonic waves (he makes a mental note to show this to Mary sometime); he catches the screws in his hands, silently takes off the vent cover, and throws his pack into the duct. Crawling into the duct feet- first, he prays that no one spot him. It takes him a second to carefully lift the cover and set it back in place. He can't risk screwing it back in case the device doesn't work on his way out, so he hopes no one will notice.

Clint turns himself around with some difficulty and opens his pack, rifling through it to find the headband with the light and pulls it onto his forehead, lighting up his path. He bets he looks ridiculous, but at least he can see. The ducts are shiny metal, warm from the circulating air, and a bit of a tight fit ("you've let yourself go, Barton," he mutters to himself), but he doesn't feel claustrophobic or trapped. There's something comforting and secure about small spaces where he can keep track of everything and not have to worry about too many hidden surprises.

It doesn't take much crawling before he reaches a sharp drop in the ducts, straight down. He pulls the magnetic clamps from his pack and attaches them to the side of the vertical vent. He can only go down, so he climbs down to the next floor, wincing at the clacking noise they make against the metal walls. He can just barely stand in it when he reaches the bottom, and it takes some maneuvering to get back into crawling position.

A few feet away, there's a vent cover fitted into the floor of the duct. It has metal slats, like bars, across it. It’s just large enough that he could fit through it if need be. Carefully, silently, he crawls up to it and peers through to the empty stretch of hallway below. _Okay,_ he this, _I might actually be able to do this._

Clint crawls over the vent cover and continues onwards. He has a lot of air duct to map out strategically before he'll find Coulson. Finding him is only a part of it; Clint has to find a way to get both of them out safely and maybe back through the air ducts. That’s the plan, at least.

Every few yards of duct, he plants a green sticker on the wall to his right. When he turns into a corridor or around a corner, he changes colors. For a moment, he's really glad that SHIELD actually has useful supplies (even if they are basically colored stickers).

He scouts out the bunker through the vent covers as he maps the ducts with stickers. It's surprisingly simple and understaffed. There are a few offices, a storage closet, a kitchen, half-empty barracks…boring. Simple. Amateur.

The only significant thing he’s seen so far is a laboratory, with scientists scratching their heads over bubbling beakers and Petri dishes. He wonders what science has to do with Jim’s network. Bombs? Germ warfare? He moves on.

As he crosses the duct from the kitchen to the hallway, he begins to doubt that Coulson is even here anymore. He could be dead. He could be gone. Clint could be on a wild goose chase. Clint _is_ on a wild goose chase. He’s saving the man who betrayed him. It is, by far, one of the stupidest things he’s done in awhile.

"--you go deeper?" he hears echo up through a vent. It's an extremely frustrated man, by the sound of it. He stops and edges up to the vent slowly to peek thorough, turning off the light on top of his head.

"He's locked me out somehow," the woman replies, and Clint perks up, because they might be talking about Coulson. The woman, Australian by the sound of it, has short, spiky hair and wears civilian clothes. The man wears a suit under his lab coat, like the other scientists. Clint wonders what abilities they have. "Are you sure he isn't--"

"Why are you asking me?" he snarls (Clint notes the barest hint of an accent), "you're the one who can read him." She’s some kind of telepath, it seems. He freezes for a moment and tries not to think too hard. (Of course, his mind instantly turns into a porno.)

"I'm tired," she whines, and the man sighs.

"I'll give you eight hours," he snaps, "if you can't prove yourself after that…" he trails off menacingly, letting her imagination do all the work _. That’s stupid,_ Clint thinks, _can’t she just read his mind anyways?_ The woman sighs before stalking off towards the barracks.

Clint waits for them both to clear the hallway before continuing over the vent, switching his light on and crawling down the corridor, stopping only to place a purple sticker ever few feet. Ahead of him there two vents a few feet apart. One larger room. After that, there are vents every few feet, Followed by a series of closer vents, hinting at several small rooms. He wonders what they are, afraid to hope that they are cells.

First is some kind of medical bay, which appears to be empty. Huh. That should change by the time he gets out of here, Clint thinks with a smirk. Next is a cell, plain white with harsh lights, containing a very frightened looking woman. Clint would almost like to help her, except he doesn't have orders concerning prisoners or civilians and no way to contact Fury. The woman lets out a faint sob. He forces himself to move on.

The next cell is empty, as is the next, and the next. He makes it to the end of the row, where the vent turns off to the left, and resists punching the metal wall. Coulson hadn't been in any of those cells…he curses under his breath before continuing. After a few yards, the duct turns off again. He crawls into the unexplored corridor, pulling out his pink stickers, and peers through a vent.

Coulson is sitting, curled up, against a dirty white wall.


	8. Chapter 8

"Coulson?"

Phil looks up, blinks five times, and exhales. Clint Barton's head is sticking out of the ceiling vent.

“Tag,” he says from the ceiling with a half-hearted smile. “You’re it.”

_It's not real._

"That's new," he says. His voice crackles in his throat.

"Are you okay?" he hears Barton say, voice obviously trying to mask his concern. "Report status,” he starts responsibly, but his voice breaks. “Shit, I don't know. You want water?" he continues, voice disappearing for a moment as his head ducks back into the vent. "Here," he says, tossing a water bottle at Phil. It lands on his lap, but he ignores it.

"Hmm," he hums, looking down and away.

_It's definitely not real._

"Look," Barton says in a hushed voice, "Fury sent me. We have a little under eight hours before she comes back for you. Not sure if anyone else will pop in. It's now or never. We have to go. Grab my hands and I'll pull you up," he says, pushing his hands and half of his torso out of the vent opening. He wiggles his fingers as Phil looks up at him. "Come on, Coulson, _we have to go_."

"No," Phil mutters, looking down to the water bottle in his lap. He looks up to Barton, fixes him with a harsh stare, and says, "you aren't real." It makes him feel better, slightly, to hear his own voice repeating his mantra. He hasn't been able to control his speech in one of the dreams before. He must be gaining some control.

"Damn," Barton mutters. He ignores it, happily. "Coulson," he says, sighing in frustration, "look, Coulson, Phil, sir, whatever, it's me. Clint Barton. The smartass you work with. Kind of. You're my handler? Remember me? Legolas and Starbucks metaphors and crappy telly -- television? The guy you totally screwed over, come to rescue your ass?" Phil remembers the look on Barton's face when he had realized that he'd been framed. He had looked disappointed, devastated, even. Chancing a glance upwards, Barton meets his eye, still looking hurt, but mostly frustrated. But Barton wouldn't come to rescue him. Not after he had betrayed him like that.

_It’s not real._

The hallucination sighs again and disappears into the darkness of the air duct. After a moment, Barton's feet slide out, followed by the rest of him as he shimmies to the floor. Phil wonders if he'll be able to make it back up there again on his own. Probably. He had been in the circus, after all.

"Coulson," Barton says, kneeling down next to him. "I'm real. I don't know what I can do to prove it to you."

He can't help it, he looks over and meets Barton's eyes again. "You can't," he says quietly, picking up the water bottle and squinting at it. He breaks the seal and takes a quick drink, then a longer one. Dream or not, it's cool and wet in his throat. "That's the point. Anything you could say or do to confirm your identity, it's already in my brain," he says, tapping the side of his head. He winces a little, hitting a bruise. Barton flinches towards him, but Phil moves away, untrusting.

"I'd like to trust you. I'd like to believe that the real Clint Barton somehow got into the ventilation system and is here to rescue me. But you aren't Clint, are you?" he says, narrowing his eyes.

"No," he replies, shaking his head, "I'm _Barton_ to you. Now get up. We're leaving." He stands up, but Phil doesn't budge. "If you are dreaming, what's the harm in coming with me? Don't give away national secrets and run the mission as usual. If it's real, which it is, we've escaped. If it isn't, which is totally false, just so you know, no harm, no foul. We good?" He watches Barton hold out a hand to help him up and fail miserably at giving him an encouraging smile. He hesitates.

"This has to be a dream," Phil says, taking the hand. Barton pulls him to his feet. "There's no way Barton would be that sensible." He smiles. "Can I get a leg up?" he says after a moment, wincing as he stretches his muscles. In addition to taking more than a few hits during his attempted escapes, he's been tensed up for hours. Barton obligingly laces his fingers together, palms up, and Phil steps into his cupped hands.

He scrambles up into the vent, surprised to find that it's big enough for him to crawl around on his hands and knees. Still, he feels shut in and trapped. Phil takes a deep breath. He can do this.

"Come on," he says encouragingly, leaning out of the vent to offer Barton a lift up just as he's about to jump. "You're supposed to be the one leading this fantasy."

"If it was a fantasy, someone would be naked," Barton mutters, taking his hands.

"Are you offering?" Phil replies as he lifts Barton into the vent. He takes the other side around the square hole, shuffles through his pack, and pulls a headband with a light onto his head before tossing one to Phil.

"You are so going to regret that once you realize this is real," Barton finally whispers as he screws the vent cover back on with a SHIELD issue device. Phil doesn't tell him that he's starting to believe that it is. "Come on," he says, zipping up his pack and heading off in one direction, "we're getting out of here. Try to keep quiet."

"Wait," Phil says softly when Barton turns and starts to crawl away. "There's -- there's something we need to do first," he says, mind racing.

"What? No, we're getting out of here," Barton says, twisting away.

"Barton," he snaps in a whisper, hoping his voice won't carry. "If this is real," he takes a deep breath, "if we get out of here, they'll realize that SHIELD knows their location and run. This is an old HYDRA base. There are gaps in security from decades of carelessness. I have to complete my objective before I get out of here."

"Fury wouldn't--"

"Fury wouldn't have sent you in here alone," he says pointedly. "You went in here before back-up arrived, and your comms are down because something's blocking the signal, just like they're blocking my tracker."

"Explain," Barton snaps, "quickly. We have to move."

"I've been supplying them with information regarding a program the government has been developing. Radiation and its effects on humans. Its ability to enhance."

"Conspiracy much?" Barton mutters. "Radiation causes mutations, right?"

"That's the point," he says quickly, "I'm not a scientist, I just had to give them the information. We couldn't fake it. When I got here, I saw what they were working on from the data I'd given them. They're working on a serum that combines radiation exposure with chemicals that will enhance or create mutations."

"That…that sounds like a terrible idea," Barton says, eyebrows knitting together. "Don't they watch the news? That never ends well."

"We need to destroy their research," he says, ignoring Barton's commentary, "I don't know how far they've gotten. When I first came in, they brought me into some labs. There's a high level telepath in there," he says, "I'd been able to fool the low-level one, he's more of an empath. But she read my mind and she's been trying to get information out of me ever since. Her name is Emily." He pauses. "They don't even have proper names. It's embarrassing."

"So I've heard," Barton says dryly.

"Marcel is the name of the guy who can block radio waves and other signals. He's the reason why you can't use comms if he has his power turned on. There are two men with super-strength, a woman with invulnerability, and her sister, who can manipulate gravity. There's a pair of twins who work like an electric circuit. Most of the others were off-base twenty-four hours ago, but they could have called them in when they discovered me. There are three main scientists, all with unknown low-level powers, presumably their genius IQs. There's about two dozen armed guards."

"This is a suicide mission," Barton mutters. "What have you got, laser vision?"

Phil blinks a few times. "Agility. Strength. Intuition," he admits finally. He doesn't know what to read on Barton's face -- it shifts around. He moves his weight from one hand to another. "It runs in the family, I guess," he shrugs, like it isn't a big deal. Like it's _normal_. _It is,_ he tells himself. _It’s okay._

"Fury was bullshitting you," Barton says after a long moment. He can’t read him.

"We don't have time for this," Phil sighs, shaking his head. "We have to find the laboratories. Destroy their research. Do you know the way?"

"Straight ahead, right, first left—the one with green stickers," Barton shrugs. "Follow me." Without another word, he turns and crawls forward on his hands and knees. Phil can only follow. "Hope you enjoy the view," he calls back to Phil. He swallows a chuckle.

They crawl through the ducts slowly but steadily, sometimes over vents with views that make Phil's heart jump in his chest. He recognizes mutants in the hallways and hopes that they won't spot them through the vent covers. Barton doesn't seem to be worried about that at all, he just keeps going silently, taking a few turns and finally stopping at a particular vent. He twists and turns to face Phil. He can definitely see how the circus has paid off.

Phil turns off the light on his head to peer cautiously through the grate of the air vent. There are possible weapons everywhere, not to mention what Barton has in his pack. As for exits, he has the vents and one set of well locked and guarded doors. He might as well consider there to be no exits.

"We are so screwed," Barton breathes in his ear, leaning in next to him to peek through to the laboratory. The room is pretty large, although the ceiling is low like the rest of the bunker. Directly below them is a counter with various chemicals set upon it, but the three scientists are clustered on the other side of the room, chatting animatedly about something just out of sight.

"Okay,” one says, clapping his hands together as the last of the mutants -- minus Emily the telepath and the twins -- enter the room. "Now we can begin." The tightly knit cluster of mutants eye him apprehensively.

 "They've done it, haven't they," Barton says, as one of the scientists motions for a dark-haired woman and begin speaking in a quieter voice that doesn’t carry to the vents. It's the gravity manipulator.

"That's still to be seen," Phil whispers back. "What have you got?"

"Fifteen regular arrows, four reinforced tips, three explosive, two sedative, and one gas," he says, pulling his quiver from the pack. "But I can't shoot from here. There isn't enough space." He pulls out the collapsible bow but doesn't extend it.

"And for me?" he asks, pressing his face to the vent to get a better look at the corners of the room. He hears a rustling noise and looks up to see Barton pulling two guns and a knife from the pack and eyeing him warily. He holds out a hand, but Barton flinches back, hesitating.

"You're going to have to trust me," Phil says, sitting back up as best he can in the crowded space. Barton's face hardens a little. Phil thinks back to the look on his face when he'd mouthed "sorry" and recognizes something similar in his expression. He takes a deep breath. "I know how that sounds, but you can't pull anything like you did during our first mission. I need to know what you're going to do before you do it so I can help you. I'm trying to work with you, Barton. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," he breathes.

"Good," Phil says as Barton hands over the guns.

*

It's a good plan, Clint will give him that. It's not Coulson's fault when it falls to shit.

“Have fun storming the castle,” Clint mutters, turning back to the familiarity of The Princess Bride for luck.

“Think it’ll work?” Coulson replies in a whisper.

“It would take a miracle.”

With that, Coulson kicks the unscrewed vent cover out and jumps onto the counter below, guns blazing. Clint peers down a bit more admirably than he'd like to admit. It is pretty badass.

"If you cooperate, no one has to get hurt," he says as they stare at him in shock.

Then a woman rushes at him, tall and brunette. Coulson fires. His bullets bounce off her skin. He has no choice but to jump off the counter and begin to spar with her in a blur of limbs.

“That’s my cue,” Clint mutters.

Clint springs from the vent and extends his bow as he lands. He nocks two arrows, shoots the signal-blocker (Marcel, he remembers) and the empath, who is rushing towards the other end of the room. One of the scientists has already tripped an alarm, though, and Clint puts an arrow into his arm. _That's three down, twelve in my quiver_ , he thinks, and then finds himself dodging punches from two men with muscles larger than the Strong Man from the carnival. They'll be the ones with super-strength.

Clint grins and vaults off the counter and in the air, nocking two arrows with reinforced tips and sending them into the chest of one man. Clint lands feet away in the mêlée -- Coulson is fighting off both sisters, now and bullets are floating and zinging away -- he turns away from the mess and steps across the room, putting space between himself and the remaining strong man. The one he'd shot falls down, struggles to get to his feet, and falls again. The other man growls, actually _growls_ , and advances on Clint.

"What are you, a dog?" Clint snaps at him, reaching into his quiver and pulling out the last two reinforced arrows. He nocks one and pulls the string to his chin. "Here, boy, come on, boy," he says, shooting. The arrow flies through empty space as the man suddenly jumps out of the way, running straight at him. "Seriously, no _finesse_ ," Clint sighs, pulling out his gun and shooting him in the shins a few times. The man howls and collapses on the floor.

Clint turns around and makes a mental inventory. Seven arrows, one reinforced, three explosive, two seda -- one sedative, as the first strong man begins to get to his feet, and one gas. He doesn't want to use that one, not with Coulson and him in the room. He’s never had a chance to test it before.

"Coulson?" Clint yells, looking around the room. Two of the scientists have hidden behind counters, one is passed out from the pain of his arrow, and Coulson is still fighting the invulnerable woman. Her sister lies unconscious a few feet away, neck twisted around strangely. Clint knows he's supposed to find something he can use to signal Fury, but there’s nothing he can see that would send out a message. “I can’t find anything.”

“Barton,” Coulson shouts back, out of breath, and makes a hand signal. The invulnerable woman is gaining the upper hand as blow after blow bounces off her. Clint loads an arrow. “Ready,” Coulson shouts, and he shoots.

The cylinder attaches to her shirt. She looks down and moves to pull it off. Coulson jumps out of the way, diving behind a counter, and Clint rolls over to join him. The arrow explodes, sending glass and debris flying. He doesn't see body parts, though, and when he glances at the scorch mark he sees her, perfectly intact (although her clothing is another matter) and unconscious.

They barely have a moment before the doors in front of them open. Clint and Coulson jump to their feet and meet the eyes of a very angry looking woman, flanked by identical twin boys (they're _teenagers_ , Clint thinks with a sinking feeling in his stomach), each with a shock of platinum blonde hair.

“What’s going on?” she asks, as if it isn’t obvious, and Clint understands why Fury and Coulson are so disappointed in these guys. They’re idiots.

“Friend of yours?” he says, turning to Coulson.

“Not—“ He freezes mid sentence, eyes glazing over, expression turning blank. The woman doesn’t even pay Clint any attention, but Coulson begins to murmur under his breath, to whine and –

“Prepare to die, bitch,” he mutters, sending an arrow her way. It’s zapped out of the air before it can reach his target by a miniature lightning bolt. All right.

"Sorry," he mutters to Coulson, halfheartedly shooting another arrow at the telepath as he vaults over the counter at his back. His eyes narrow and he pops up from behind the counter, smiling cheekily at the twins, who have advanced on him.

"Now is usually the time when you'll say something about how shocking this is or something," he says as they join hands and glare at him, unspeaking. "God, you guys are boring." He backs away, nocking another arrow and sending it their way. The twins lift their free hands, lightning bursting from their palms to join in one bolt of electricity. It zaps the speeding arrow into oblivion with a burst of sparks. Clint takes a self-conscious step back from the twins; they’re engulfed from head to toe in blue-white lightning.

"That interesting enough for you?" one twin says with a cocky grin.

"Yes, yes," Clint says, nocking an arrow and pointing it at the teenager’s eye. "Nice demonstration," he says, loosing the arrow and shooting another immediately after. They miss the second arrow as they destroy the first, and it drives right between their hands.

"Missed," they say in unison, and god, that is so creepy.

"Nope," Clint says, backing up against another counter and shooting a regular arrow between them. This time, the lightning bolts that travel across the twins’ limbs spark out over the water from the broken watercooler at their feet.

Their screams echo in his ears.

The untouched arrow flies straight past them and through the forehead of Emily the telepath. She falls to the floor without a sound. _Well done_ , he thinks. Of course, that's when one of the scientists pops up behind him and forces a gun to his head before he can scramble away.

"Out, Coulson, or I shoot him dead," the scientist yells across the room. Clint remembers his voice. It’s the guy from the hallway. He notes that the man is still suppressing an accent and thinks he understands Fury's and Coulson's disappointment in the lack of bravado with these guys. They're boring. He should be milking the accent for all it's worth.

"That’s not a gun," Coulson says as he emerges from behind the counter on the other side of the room, gun pointed steadily at the scientist. Of course, that also means that it's pointing right at Clint. He meets Couson's eye, ready to shift if need be, but he shakes his head a fraction.

Glancing around without moving, Clint takes in the scene of the destroyed laboratory; there are dead or unconscious mutants everywhere, broken equipment and dangerous-looking chemicals smoking out of their spilled beakers scattered across the floor. There are no guards in sight, and no sign that they're coming. Something is very wrong.

"Not a gun," the scientist says, dragging the tip of the weapon down Clint's head and pressing it against his neck. It's made of plastic, and it certainly is made to shoot _something_ at him. "But just as dangerous in the right hands." Clint can hear the smile in his voice.

"Umberland," he says to the other scientist, and a click tells Clint that Umberland is pointing a real gun at Coulson.

"That won't work on him," Coulson says levelly, "it's the last of the serum, isn't it? Or the first, really. You use that up, that's the only time it will ever be used. And, trust me, you won't even be around to see the results." He's still pointing his gun at the scientist, but now that Clint knows what's digging into his neck, he can't even imagine that it's enough. A bullet he could handle. A bullet means harsh pain and bleeding out; a bullet is shrapnel and twisted flesh and the taste of death. With a bullet, he lives or dies.

He can't even imagine what the mutant serum would do to him.

"Erskine learned to live with his disappointment," the man spits, "or, rather, he did for awhile." Clint _really_ wishes SHIELD would start briefing him on things properly.

"Then why not inject someone who is actually a mutant?" Coulson is moving around counters and smashed laboratory equipment without even looking at his feet, moving steadily towards their little group in their stalemate. Clint tries to grasp at what he's saying.

"Never test on yourself," the scientist says, "elementary," and he really, really hates this guy more than anything.

"What about me?" Coulson says, "me for him, and you'll get your revenge all in one." _He's bluffing,_ Clint thinks, _he has to be._ There’s no way he’d stick his neck on the line for Clint. No one would.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?” the scientist snarls, pushing the plastic of the gun hard into his neck. Clint closes his eyes and mouth and takes a deep, long breath.

The gas arrow finally goes off, clouds of the white gas shooting from his quiver into the scientist's mouth and eyes. It's not tear gas, exactly, but it burns the eyes and lungs and can knock out whoever ingests it. Fury had been quite clear that he should get out of wherever he used it as soon as possible, which he interprets to mean that it's highly experimental and toxic. Good.

Clint pulls the arrow from his quiver and throws it in Umberland's general direction as he rolls away from the scientist, kicking the plastic gun out of his hands (it's clear and loaded with two cartridges of serum, good for shooting from short distances) and grabbing Coulson's arm to lead him away. "Come on," he chokes, but Coulson shakes his head and motions towards the cloud. Of course. The gun. "Son of a--" He stops and  bursts into a coughing fit.

Coulson is a black shape on the edge of the rapidly dissipating cloud, searching in vain for the serum and gun. Clint hopes that the scientists are both knocked out. He'd like nothing more than to send his two remaining explosive arrows their way, hope that everything necessary got destroyed, and get the hell out of there. He hesitates for a moment before following Coulson in there, cursing himself for not picking up the serum instead of kicking it a few feet away.

His eyes are burning and he can't stop coughing, but he can see Coulson. If he looses his vision for this…

"See it?" Coulson gasps, holding his shirt collar over his mouth and squinting against the gas. He takes a step in front of Coulson, towards where he'd been just a moment ago, back pressed to the counter and gun pressed against his neck.

That's when a fan in the ceiling kicks in and the room clears within seconds.

"Fuck," Clint mutters, staring at the serum gun, pointed right at him and shooting before he can even move. He imagines dying, imagines that it won't be that easy, imagines the serum tearing up his veins and eating his insides, his hair falling out, his blood boiling and skin bubbling and death in the slowest, most painful way imaginable. He imagines his skin crusting over, his bones bending, his heart pumping a mile a minute. Anything could happen.

He almost wishes it were a bullet heading his way.

Coulson shoves him to the floor and flies towards the scientist. There is shooting and shouting and he thinks he's yelling "Coulson?" like a question as he nocks an arrow and doesn't know where to point it.

The first scientist is dead, Coulson putting several bullets into him, and Umberland is bleeding out on the floor, his injured arm under Coulson's shiny black shoe.

"Tell me where the files are hidden and you'll die quicker," he says, gritting his teeth. Clint joins him in the blink of an eye, pointing an arrow right at the man.

"Fuck you," the man spits in a heavy accent (why hadn't _he_ been doing all the talking?) and tries to spit at Coulson from his position on the ground. It’s kind of disgusting to watch the spit fly back onto the man’s face. Coulson grimaces.

“You are utterly pathetic, you know that? I’m ashamed.”

"Coulson," Clint says suddenly, looking around. "Where are the guards?" He steps down on Umberland's arm and he screams.

"Guards?" Coulson asks, but the man blinks at him. Clint looks around searchingly. There has to be something he’s missed…

"Holy shit," he says, throwing his arrow back into the quiver and gripping his bow tightly, "Coulson, this place is rigged to explode, we gotta --" he grabs at Coulson's arm to pull him away, but he winces and wrestles his arm out of Clint's grip.

"Are you sure?"

"There's a fucking countdown over there," he says, pointing to a digital countdown. They have two minutes. "He's biding his time," he spits, stepping away, "we gotta get out of here!"

Coulson doesn't think about it twice, just leaves the man and heads towards the door. He grits his teeth and tries to hide it, but Clint isn’t an idiot.

“Come on, are you – shit, there’s, there’s a woman,” he says, “um, in the cell block across from yours, I think. Do you know--?”

“Follow me,” Coulson says through gritted teeth, leading him from the laboratory and through the hallways. The layout of the place is similar to the vents, but they don’t have the time. _One minute, forty seconds_ ticks the clock in his brain, but it’s probably _wrong_. His heart is pounding in his ears and he needs to get out of there, but they can’t just leave her to die.

They storm through the deserted medical bay and into a plain white hallway. One door is open. Coulson’s cell.

“They must have discovered that I was gone and hit self-destruct,” Coulson mutters. “Which one?”

Clint stops in front of the cell and tries the door, but it’s locked with some fancy door lock. He pulls a charge from his pocket to place on the lock.

“Get back from the door,” he yells through it before attaching the charge and ushering Coulson back. He’s breathing heavily, sweat dripping off his forehead, and Clint surveys him closely. He isn’t going to make it on his own. “You were hit,” Clint mutters. “You were hit because of me, you fucking moron, you—“  
  


A tiny explosion signals the door lock exploding and Clint kicks it aside, bounding into the cell.

“Aren’t you –?“ she starts, but Clint grabs her arm.

“Now is not the time for any Princess Leia bullshit,” he says as he pulls her out of the cell. She doesn’t protest. “This place is gonna blow. Can you run?” He looks her up and down. She isn’t armed.

“Yes,” she says, “who, who are you?”

“I’m Luke Skywalker, and this is Han Solo,” he says, turning to Coulson. He’s bent over and gasping for breath now, and when Clint puts an arm under his to pull him up, he’s burning up.

“Go on ahead,” Coulson wheezes as they limp through the medical bay. “The serum is, ahhh, they got it wrong. It’s attacking the mutation, not enhancing it.” Clint’s mental countdown is ticking, one minute, but he isn’t letting go of Coulson.

" _You are not a fucking mutant_ ," Clint growls, "It's not going to work on you, and I am not leaving you behind! Why do you think I’m here?” The woman looks between the two of them, not sure what to do. If Clint had enough time to think, he’d ask her why she’s there in the first place.

"The sentiment is appreciated," Coulson says hoarsely as he’s pulled into the hallway. Clint is suddenly thankful for his tirade through the air ducts -- he knows just where to go. "But you need to get out of here. Mission accomplished, every man for himself." The woman looks between them.

“I don’t know the way out,” she says desperately. Clint finally registers that she’s British. He ignores her.

"If you don't get your ass into gear, I will carry you out bridal style," Clint growls through gritted teeth. Coulson sets his mouth into a firm line and tries to sprint alongside him in short, halting bursts that look very painful. "That's more like it."

*

He remembers falling, gasping, shaking. He remembers Barton carrying him out of the castle ruins. He remembers a blast knocking them down into the mossy field, and Barton shielding him from flying debris. He remembers being carted for what seemed like miles and miles until he'd heard loud, arguing voices. It had all faded out from there, mostly, except a "you better explain yourself, bub," and Clint swearing a lot under his breath when they were out of earshot in the jet. “I heard that,” echoes through his memories, as does a lot more swearing and a muttered question (his own?) as to where the British woman went.

The next thing he sees is the ceiling of a room. He recognizes it faintly. It’s a small medical room in the SHIELD helicarrier. He should be safe.

Phil starts when he sees Fury sitting at his beside, reading a magazine.

"Am I hallucinating?" he asks, voice raspy in his dry throat, because it's _Good Housekeeping_.

The eye patch appears from behind the magazine and tells him that no, he is not dreaming. This is very, very real. And then he stares at Phil for a very long time.

"Director--" Phil starts with a sigh, and, of course, that's when Fury decides to speak.

"Barton says you took the shot for him," he says flatly. "I've cleared the rest with him and debriefed him, although he still has a hell of a lot of questions about why the government is playing around with genetically enhancing people. I told him it's your favorite subject," he smiles, and Phil groans inwardly. "I raised his clearance level to four and yours to six, cleared your name, and gave both of you a two week vacation. After you've been properly debriefed, of course."

"Of course," Phil nods.

"He has a lot of questions," Fury continues, and Phil doesn't understand why he keeps talking about Barton. He flexes his muscles, looks down at himself, and he doesn't feel any different. He doesn't look any different. He doesn’t think he could punch through walls or shoot laser beams out of his eyes. _Maybe it isn’t about feeling different_ , he thinks, _I never felt strong before._

"It's only fair that we answer most of them," Phil replies. Fury eyes him carefully with his scanning gaze.

"My question is," he says, "why do you keep sticking your neck out for that kid? It's nearly gotten you killed, and more than once."

"Agent Barton is," he starts, and then stops. "There's something in him," he says slowly, in a quieter voice. "When I was investigating Moriarty, I noticed patterns. The ways Barton would kill, how he chose his targets, how he acted. He didn't enjoy his job."

"So you decided to offer him the chance to kill more people?" Fury asks skeptically.

"I offered him a second chance, to help others," Phil says, swallowing. "It's harder, for some people. I think Barton is one of them. He wants to do good, to -- to _be_ good, but, at the end of the day, he doesn't always have the best judgment. I gave him a chance, and he took it. If he keeps taking those chances,” Phil takes a deep breath, “I think he really will be the best of us."

"Do _you_ find the path to helping people easy, Coulson?" Fury asks, and it's such a strange question that Phil doesn't even know how to answer it.

"I didn't grow up planning on being a SHIELD Agent, Director Fury," he says finally. "It just happened that way."

Fury nods, satisfied, and hands him a paper cup filled with water from a tray.

"The serum had no affect on you, except to knock you out for awhile. You aren't a mutant," Fury says. "They’re analyzing the other cartridge that you retrieved, however. It might come in handy after all, if they can reverse engineer it.”

Phil blinks a few times. “Are you sure?” But he’d been positive. It had made perfect sense. And Fury had said --

“You’re a good agent, Coulson,” Fury says, “and you got that way through hard work. Anything I implied…was for the good of the mission.” Phil takes a deep breath, absorbing this information. Of course Fury lied. It’s his job.

“Is that all, Director?” he asks.

“Get some rest,” Fury says, opening the door. “Oh, and you can take your time with the paperwork for once."

With that, he leaves, the door to Phil's room sliding shut with relieving finality. He wants to close his eyes and go back to sleep, just this once, with all of the stress of being undercover gone. Hill will know, then. Sitwell, too. He’ll have their respect back – probably more than he had ever bargained for, if Fury tells them enough of the story.

He lies back for awhile, thinking about what forms he'll have to fill out and what precautions he’ll have to take now. The mutants won’t be gone, but they’ve been hurt. They’ll come back for revenge. He’ll have to move, get a new car, perhaps even relocate to another SHIELD base. He hates apartment hunting, but it's a necessity. But it’s over. It’s finally…over.

He stiffens as a tile in the ceiling slides open and soft, quiet feet land on the floor. Phil doesn't move, still pretending like he's asleep. Barton takes the seat beside him and sits in heavy silence for a few moments.

"If you didn’t want to be a SHIELD agent, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

"I wanted to be Captain America," he replies quietly, opening his eyes and catching a strange look on Barton's face. It hangs there for too long of  a moment, too soft and too open, before Barton smoothes it over with his cocky smirk. Just this once, Phil smiles back.

_Fin._ __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and sending me your kudos and comments! I hope you've enjoyed reading my story as much as I enjoyed writing it.   
> A sequel (sequels?) is in the works, but I'm starting school very soon and I don't expect I'll have a lot of time to work on it.


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